Closing the heavy stone door behind her, the woman known throughout Anuire as the Sword Mage pauses for a moment to gather her senses and energy. Seemingly not hindered by the enveloping darkness, she places a fine-boned hand against the cool stone of the door, letting her delicate fingers feel the texture of the stone beneath them. A few quiet words are softly spoken and bright ribbons of coruscating purple and red energies erupt, racing down the outline of the door and back over its surface. Nodding to herself, she steps back. None will disturb her now, even if they were foolish enough to enter her personal chambers.
Turning to survey the octagonal interior of the chamber she smiles briefly, the expression doing little more than turning up the corners of her mouth. Tonight would be a night of renewing old acquaintances, of dealing with an ancient being steeped in evil. That thought causes a shake of the head. Men use such simplistic definitions to encompass that which they did not understand. What is evil? There was no such thing, only necessity and power.
Moving forward, the woman pulls a small silver decanter from within a recess in the wall, mindful of the rim. It would not do to spill the contents – more than a few careless mages had met their end through such inattention. Tracing careful steps upon the floor she slowly traces an octagonal symbol on the floor with silver dust, overlaying characters representing candles, flames, and other, more foul things. Standing back, the black robed woman looks down on her work, more intricate than the finest lace, and nods to herself. Over the long years she had not lost her art.
A moment later, harsh words roll from the woman’s tongue, dark words reeking of foulness and corruption. Of a tongue seldom heard upon the surface of this world for millennia, from a time when the old gods walked the earth. Or at least one of them had, the woman reflected. The silver pattern in the floor flared momentarily and then seemed to melt into the ground, gaining a sense of permanence that was deceiving to the uninitiated. Moving quickly now, the woman traces more silver dust upon the floor, creating a circular pattern around the newly formed symbols and focused inwards with complimentary geometric shapes.
Finished, the woman stands back to re-place the now empty decanter upon its shelf. Green light, streaked with sickly brown ribbons, flows from her hand and descends to settle upon her finished work. Taking a moment to inspect her handiwork once again, the Sword Mage nods to herself. This will hold the creature, securing it firmly and preventing it from breaking free. Old acquaintances were not necessarily old friends. Some things did not understand the notion of friendship and while the woman did not count herself one of them, she knew of things for whom friendship was an alien concept. Chythlwng was one of these, a creature of endless hunger.
Soft chanting begins to fill the cool night air, slowly building in intensity and volume before dying away again only to rise yet again, over and over. Minutes pass as words seldom heard are uttered anew, calling and demanding, asking and binding obedience. Light, sickly and foreboding, begins to coil and thicken around the inscribed symbols of the circle, yet none pass it’s outer boundary. A flame symbol gapes open and then flares up towards the night sky, bulging and convulsing as though housing an unspeakable energy. With a bright flash and low concussive boom that could be imagined but not felt through the barrier it is gone.
In its place stood a nightmare. A creature nine feet in height, its limbs heavy with twisted branches and roots, limp, rotting leaves and vines exuding a stench of decay. From within a misshapen head, hungry red eyes fix on the woman even as its gaping maw opens wide, exposing sharp fangs. Corruption rolls off the figure in waves that are almost visible and power looms high and threatening behind it. Chythlwng, named Sidhebane in an Age long past when the elves fought with such creatures for dominion of the forests and land.
Without warning, the creature strikes at the woman, vines streaking towards her at impossible speed only to recoil from some unseen, impenetrable barrier. A loud screech of frustration and rage splits the air.
"The strong take what they want from the weak, you know this Chythlwng," the woman says in a quiet voice that chills the night air. Conjuring an image of a handsome, dark haired man wearing a seemingly ancient iron ring, she continues in the same soft voice, "There is someone who has something I want, Chythlwng, and I would have you get it for me."
"Bring me the ring, Chythlwng. The man you may have him for your own amusement."
