Mezare puts out all but three candles around the glowing circle so that they form an inverted triangle. He stands over Farelt with a dagger in hand and begins to chant the incantation to summon a Dark God from the Dark Realms of the world. As he chants, the blue glow of the symbols on the floor begins to change. First, they brighten to an almost white shade, then they darken until they glow a deep black color, blacker than the night outside, or any night before it.
He felt something in the air as well. A pressure building, a feeling of energy moving through the air. As he proceeds with the spell, small objects begin to shake and rattle about the room. His knapsack of supplies begins to levitate while the empty vial used to poison Farelt starts to spin on the floor. Drapes, plates, sheets and more rise from the ground and begin to float and spin in midair. Mezare looks down as he continues and locks eyes with Farelt.
No fear, no rage, nothing. Just a look of icy death. Mezare will relish watching that look fade as true death seeps into his body. Mezare reaches the last few lines and realizes he can’t hear himself anymore. Everything in the room is shaking and the wind outside howls louder than anything he has ever heard before. He crouches down as he comes to the final line and lifts the knife. As the final word takes flight from his lips, he brings the knife down and looks deep into Farelts eyes.
Nothing. Mezare does not know how, but Farelts eyes remain lifeless, which might be expected since hewasnow lifeless, but Mezare expected some change, a glazing over or expansion of the pupils, but not this, not nothing. The old mans eyes still stare into Mezares, piercing into him like two ethereal knives. He seems almost alive.
Mezare looks away, for he feels something strange building in him. Fear? No, he is not a man accustomed to fear. Rather than work to discern the feeling, he instead looks around the room, and sees that all is still. Things hang frozen in the air, and the wind has ceased its song of screams. Mezare looks for any other sign that he has succeeded, but finds nothing. He panics, for he has given everything he has. He no longer has a family, for they were long lost to time or the many threats of the world, and the closest thing he had to a friend was laid before him, casting him looks of death even from the grave. He could not go home, for he was a wanted man. He had stolen, lied, even killed to get where he was now. All to better himself.
He had been a gifted mage from birth, but it came at a price. His weak frame made him the target of harassment from those stronger than he, and his gifted mind gained the ire of those who envied his knowledge and skill. With a lack of friends, he found nothing better to do with his time than study, study so when he was strong enough, he would make them regret their taunts, their alienation. That was when he began to learn of the Dark Gods, and the Cults of the Nether that worshipped them. He read stories of people gaining untold powers from beings more powerful than man could imagine, and he knew what he must do. He would make his tormentors bow before him, beg for his kindness, kiss the very ground he walked on
And now, all he had done could be for nothing, and he would leave this cabin to die, unfulfilled and alone. He could feel the hatred, bitter and harsh, welling up in him like a sea of fire. He looked to the sky and let the fire escape the only way he could think of.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! Where are you!?! Answer my call! ANSWER NOW!” Before he could say more, flames leapt from the floor on which he knelt. He fell back, closed his eyes and screamed as he anticipated the agony of death by flames. But he feels nothing. He wants to open his eyes, but is too afraid that sight will also bring pain. Or worse, darkness.