| In ancient times in the world of J’ian-Tiema the Old Magic was abundant. Powerful mages ruled the once-peaceful countryside with a grip of iron, commanding all who dwelt within their realms. Battles raged and power ebbed and flowed between opposing forces like the tides of the sea. As each mage died, others took their places, entranced by the captivating desire to wield the Old Magic. And so it seemed that the world of J’ain-Tiema would be eternally caught in this cycle of destruction and rebirth, the Old Magic holding sway over the lives of the lesser creatures. Yet over the millennia a kind of peace began to settle over the land. This was due to the emergence of two mages, one a man, twisted and old but brilliant, and the other a woman, noble, fair and wise, equally powerful but ultimately opposed. Both these creatures seemed able to master the Old Magic for themselves, but neither wanted to share that power. After countless ages of war, the mages brought brief times of peace on J’ian-Tiema as a stalemate evolved around them. Both warred for centuries, their life spans extended by the power of their magics, yet peace seemed to reign as their war was a subtle one, borne of politics and subterfuge. Their fortresses became huge and hulking citadels, ensconced in mountain ranges, and swallowing whole valleys within their massive walls. The populace enclosed within prospered, yet the land outside their havens became barren and wild, filled with the hideous mutations of spell-battles and ruthless vagrants trying to make a life beyond the confines and near slavery of the cities. The ages passed, both mages becoming increasingly reclusive, sheltering within their walls, and searching for the enchantment or conjuration which might bring them total dominion over J’ian-Tiema. Hundreds of generations went by, and as the mages minds focused on matters of thaumaturgy, their physical memory withered and their true names became lost. They became simply ‘King’ and ‘Queen’ to their followers, yet the only thing which united them was their mastery of the land, and it’s life-giving Old Magic.
As Old Magic was continually drawn from the land into the massive citadels, gradually the earth became scarred irreparably. Famine was rife, and virulent diseases swept the country, decimating and occasionally mutating and transforming the populace. The world of J’ian-Tiema was becoming tired, exhausted of resources and being drained of the basis of its existence; Old Magic. The realisation of this situation slowly crept into the two arch-mages’ minds, and almost simultaneously both set out to bring the Great War to a fatal end. An unearthly calm fell upon J’ian-Tiema as preparations were made for the final battle.
The old man, now cracked and withered with age, chose to relinquish part of his life force in an effort to claim the land for himself. He summoned his most powerful aides and ordered sacrifices to be made the length and breadth of the land. Gold fit to buy a kingdom was smelted and used to create an enormous brazier, placed at the point crossing of six lines of the Old Magic, and into which the ingredients of the conjuration were placed. For three human years chants were made and rituals performed around the brazier, and on the fifth night of the new moon a black fire, like a rent in the fabric of space, sprang to life.
The lady, fearing for the safety of her empire, drew countless barriers of rainbow light, shimmering and sparkling over the city in an effort to protect her dominion. She drained all the Old Magic she had in an effort to encapsulate herself within a barrier of energy that would secure her future. Then she too wrought a change upon her life force. She willed the barriers she had created to stretch away from her into the night, encapsulating not only her citadel, but the surrounding plains as well. This, she reasoned, would provide enough space for her city to survive, even if the other lands were irrevocably scorched. Although this ensured a better chance of longevity on survival of the final battle, her barriers were considerably weakened by the extension of the spell.
A cold, grey moon hung over the land of J’ian-Tiema. It’s face pock-marked and scarred from countless meteor strikes, reflecting the light from the distant sun onto the plains between the two citadels. A flaming arrow flew up into the night sky from the old man’s citadel, and silvery streams of light sprang into life between the pinnacles of the towers which were spread throughout the city. A low hum, beginning beyond the range of human hearing and then slowly developing into a deep throb, vibrated in the air. Streaks of red began to appear in the silver streams, and suddenly their direction changed, heading towards the black fire burning at the centre of the brazier. As they struck, they were quickly absorbed, like water flowing into parched soil, and the ball grew. It rose above the brazier, and moved towards the shields of multicoloured light which hung in the middle of the plains. Every metre it moved its speed increased until eventually it was a blur, streaking into the distance. Black flames danced in it’s wake, curling gracefully, silhouetted against the shimmering multicolour of the barriers.
The two spells met with an explosion of energy; black and white lightening twisted and roared silently into the night sky. A terrible quiet hung over the area for a few seconds, then the explosive shockwave of sound and heat struck. Ripping up everything in it’s path it tore across the plains separating the two citadels, gathering speed as it expanded. The only warning the people of the cities had was a violent blast of hot air and dust, before the shockwave reached the walls of both encampments. It tore through them like flame through paper, annihilating everything. The ground for miles around was burnt to a cinder, reducing buildings and people to dust in an instant. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it finished. Silence again reigned over J’ian-Tiema.
The magic, although powerful enough to destroy cities, was not enough to breach the defences of either mage’s inner sanctum. So both mages emerged into the harsh blackness of the night. Minutes passed as they stood and witnessed the destruction they had wrought upon the land. Yet they both brought their heads up in realisation as they felt a disturbance in the Old Magic. A faint glow was starting to show from the earth in the middle of the plains where the spells had met. The glow increased, like the rising sun in the morning. Gradually and with increasingly strong beams of light a shimmering ball of light began to emerge fully from the earth. As it rose it radiated all the colours of the spectrum, growing brighter all the time, until the mages could look upon it no more. Then it started to dim and coalesce into a form. The shape shifted and span through many guises, as if undecided about what it was going to be, before it settled on the shape of a woman, translucent and ethereal. White feathered wings sprang from her back, yet it was obvious she had no need of them as she hung floating in the sky. The two mages stood, transfixed and watched the spirit-woman become ever more solid before them. Then her head began to rise, and both mages saw slight elfin features and porcelain white skin, but her eyes held nothing. Silvery white light hung in the spaces where her eyes should have sat, and as the mages looked deeper they saw both the wisdom of ages, and the innocence of birth. It dawned on them what they had done, as they heard a name echo through their minds “Jantima”. They had awakened the earth.
Jantima, newly born, yet blessed with the wisdom of millennia, smiled. With that smile a slight wind picked up, and started to spin gradually around her. The wind picked up debris from the ground as it grew stronger and started to expand. The wind raced across the country, picking up everything in it’s path, and scouring the land clean. Machines of war, soldiers, farming tools, the bodies of children; the wind was indiscriminate. Everything was flung high into the sky to become part of the maelstrom. Within seconds the wind had reached the two mages, who stood paralysed in shock. They turned to run, but before they could even cry out they were snatched up by the tempest’s irresistible claws. The clouds of dust kicked up by the passing winds obscured vision for what seemed like an age, and the passage of time was impossible to determine as the celestial bodies were obscured. As the dust settled upon J’ian-Tiema it seemed as though the world was reborn. The two arch mages were nowhere to be seen, and the few remaining people of the land rejoiced at their apparent freedom. It seemed the age of magic had come to an end.
Generations passed, and the world of mortals began to prosper again, but this time respecting the balances inherent in nature and leaving the Old Magic well alone. Eventually the old stories of the mage wars was forgotten, and peaceful city grew on the spot where Jantima had arisen. It thrived on the abundance of flora and fauna which seemed to have followed in her wake. One day an old, beaten and haggard man, clad in a battered suit of plate mail and dragging a notched and pitted sword appeared in the central plaza of the city. He appeared demented, so the priests took him in and tended to him, and while he was being treated he spoke. His words emerged sometimes coherently and other times in a stream of broken words and sentences. He told of the history of J’ian-Tiema, the knowledge of which the people had lost, but most of all he spoke of a place, a prison, where mortals fought. This place, he said, was called Antiworld. A boundless prison, built by Jantima to hold the two arch mages in an eternal war. The arch mages, the man explained, had managed to bring life to Jantima, yet they also tied their own existences to the world, and so in their immortal afterlife, they fought endlessly, caught in the last and final actions which drove them to this fatal end. The fickle nature of Jantima was such that she allowed no true death in her realm, only perpetual re-incarnation. She reduced the once mighty war between the mages, to a simple yet brutal game of capturing the enemies flag. As the omnipotent governess of her realm, she creates and alters things at will, granting favours to the chosen few and punishing those who do not obey her. She also creates lesser beings, such as the creatures Xargoth, Timir, Star Phoenix, Syweyn, Gilthanor and Betle. These are masters of her game, which aid and accompany her according to her wishes. The final condition the mages were able to exert over their imprisonment was the power to draw fresh mercenaries in to fight their wars for them, although once the soldiers are there, they may choose for which side they fight. With the deliverance of his story, the tired old soldier died, and he was buried in state.
So now the people of J’ian-Tiema prepare themselves for the day when they could be drawn irrevocably into the eternal struggle between the Queen of Good and the King of Evil. Some prepare themselves to go willingly, others simply equip and train with the grim knowledge that one day they might be chosen. The few that do leave hardly ever return. So now our world lives under the shadow of the spawn of a failed attempt by mortals to control their own existence. In a manner the arch mages succeeded. They have their eternal kingdom, and Antiworld rules us all.
Written By Beetle
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