Most who were granted the Gift of magic chose to use it flashily. Having lived without magic, they wished to display their new capabilities at their fullest. A popular technique was to light your sword with eldritch flame. They didn't seem to realize that, on the whole, if you had stabbed something, the fire wasn't going to do much extra. Fireballs, beams of eldritch energy, grasping claws conjured from the darkness, or great bursts of burning light. Amusingly enough, the Infinite Empire's army had transformed into some form of terrifyingly lethal light show, with all the fire, lasers, and glowing orbs of wrath.
Few truly recognized the sheer power not of simply applying strength, but applying it where it was needed. To control one's Gift with subtle precision, to only do as much as was needed for the situation.
Alice closed her ink black eyes, focusing. She could feel the humming magic moving through her, a miracle delivered directly from Tazyn, to guide His followers. And as His scheme unfolded before her mind, she simply guided, placing the power where it was needed, with the precision and skill necessary for a Prophet. Even though even she could not yet see the end of this glorious plan, her faith was strong. For her God was with her, guiding her every action, her every thought.
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Soaring through the clouds, propelled at seemingly impossible speeds for it's great mass, the wyvern observed the city below it. As a being born from magic, it could feel the magic far below, and even it's primitive animal instincts recognized the danger. There was, of course, far easier prey to hunt, the kind of prey that didn't throw fireballs, and whom's claws were not made of iron. And yet, even as it's great eyes flashed briefly black, it started angling downward. For below, it could suddenly smell the tastiest of prey. It knew that below was a buffet, something it had never tasted before.
With the promise of food on it's tongue, the beast descended on the Tall, townsfolk and soldier alike fleeing from the area, mothers carrying children, children carrying smaller children. Those who could not walk, and were not carried, simply crawled, or cried in terror, as they beheld the beast, the Wyvern.
A majestic beast, it's scales shining golden in the light of the afternoon sun, it's eyes of bright red glaring down, selecting it's prey, and identifying the dangerous ones. It's two wings even now were unfurled, a pair of long hooked claws at the end of each, aiding to hold it in place. It's tail extended fair backwards, growing thin, until it ended into a great barbed point, containing an arcane toxin unique to Wyvern-kind. Great talons crashed through the feeble wooden roof of the slum it had chosen to land on, as it beat it's wings to prevent itself from falling into the water.
The Wyvern threw it's head into the air, stretching it's neck, fanged jaws parting as it unleashed a call, like an abominable mixture between the howl of a wolf and the shriek of a banshee, a hundredfold louder. And yet, even as hundreds fled the area, a single figure came stalking towards the dragon, clad in great armor, and bearing one of the legendary Swords of the North. Turning it's great head, the beast observed the tall humanoid, teeth bared, turning to face this new threat.
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Throughout the city, the word had spread, and with it a wind of terror, partly natural, and partly magical in nature. An enhanced panic, as people fled the area en masse, the Royal Guard retreating to guard the Noble Houses, the Mage Guild forming a great shield, the Priests of Ashyr activating the great metal golems that guarded their gates, massive bronze swords held at the ready. And yet, across the city, the doors to taverns are kicked over, many proceeding to skid over the floor.
Figures of all races, scarred by a hundred battles, stepped out from the darkness. Men with armor forged from the bones of Manticors, Elves whom's bows had received the blessings of forgotten Gods, great mages wielding eldritch fires of pure might. Adventurers, those brave souls who had always been in abundance in a world of such dangers as Wyverns. Problem solvers, monster hunters, dungeon delvers, grave robbers, and thrill seekers, those who had seen the maw of the world, and survived it.
And as each reached for their blades, a wave of dark magic washed through them. Each would wish for the bounty on the dragon's head, and each would wish it for themselves. Greed, pride, wrath..... they burned freely in the eyes of those who only moments before had rallied in the face of danger. And as spells flew, and swords thrust, it was not the dragon that was their target. Yet, it was the most capable warriors of the land, slaying one another in cold blood. Those mages and priests who had felt the magic sweep through the city could only gaze on in abject horror as the bloodshed commenced.
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Upon the Throne of Stars, sat a small girl, a smile on her face. Soon, the authorities of this city would be toppled, and the prophecies of her master would come to pass. For it took only the smallest push to set the world's end in motion, if only one knew where to press. And Areopolis, the commercial and religious center of most of the civilized world, was the perfect place to begin.