Stepping out of the receiving capsule, the bio-scanners passed over him. With the advancement in the broad fields of magic and tech, the security measures followed. With more avenues of power, more threats developed from the anti-Magitek sentimentalists--the Technocrats.
Stepping forward, another scanner sweeped him, blaring loudly like always. A mechanical voice chimed from all around, “Threat class, A bordering on S. Deploying dampeners.”
“Bordering S? Last I checked, I barely passed A,” he muttered.
A dense field of energy washed over him and the secretary--a cyborg--nodded from the other side of the reinforced HoloGlass, waving him onward. When he turned to proceed towards the Archmage’s office, a second cyborg followed him in a Striker suit--fully equipped with all the latest doodads to royally mess him up if he tried to cause problems.
His weariness ran bone deep today, so the Archmage would find him more amenable than usual. The corridor remained straight, protruding far past the thin width of the spire would allow. Mages had long since figured out how to expand space. The spatial magic contributed to the compact nature of the Mage societies.
His mind wandered, the corridor long and narrow, leaving him plenty of time to ruminate further. So he thought of the things that he knew about the Mage society and the spire - things he learned from his youth. The knowledge was worth a lot to some Technocrat information brokers, and he always kept it on the tip of the tongue in case he needed to leave in haste.
But he knew he never would. Not so long as Madison lived in Vabratant.
His youth, a wonderful time to be alive, made him wish for those times back. His teeth itched with the desire for more Faerie Dust, to delve into those memories again. A time when he was most vulnerable, impressionable and willing to give his all for…
He wanted those times back.
Before he knew it, the hallway ended. For a title as grandiose as a dark Mage, Buller kept things fairly simple. His door was made of gray wood, embedded with two sets of secondary scanners--guaranteed to record everything that moved outside the door--and carved tapestries to either side of the door.
The scanners checked him again, repeating the same monotonous warning. Ignoring the security system, he pushed through the doors and Archmage Buller’s personal Library.
Peyton always thought it weird the archmage made his home amongst books instead of other Mages, sequestering himself away from prying eyes, but the man was a living legend. Certainly, he had skeletons he wished to keep buried and knowledge he kept close to heart.
Whatever propelled the Archmage forward worked, so Peyton couldn't admonish the man’s process - even if it bordered eccentricity. If Buller wanted a massive library to hide in, then nobody would dare stop him.
One of the many benefits of being someone of such status and rapport. With a single command, the Mage societies would move in full force.
Contrary to the sentimentality of the New Age Archmages, Buller believed in purity. Keeping his Kamii “taint free”--as he so eloquently put it--from any Technocrat or Magitek influence. Outside of his influence, the thing that made him most terrifying was the man himself. His power condensed without supplementation over countless years, yet he didn’t look a day past his prime.
Peyton scoffed at the irony. As one of the most influential propagators of Magitek, the Archmage’s blatant dismissal of the craft for personal use didn’t quite tickle the fancy of the rest of the Mage society. Slanderers and conspiracy theorists flocked to any piece of dirt they could get his polished reputation - reminiscent of the very spire he resided within.
As much as Peyton wished he could hate the man, he had to respect his devotion and competence. Buller was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.
“Sit.” The Archmage didn’t deign to glance his way, his flowing robe glistening with waves of his unbidden power.
Taking the plain wooden chair and flipping it around, Peyton sat, clasping his hands together and resting his arms over the chair back. “What’s the matter, Buller?”
The Archmage narrowed his eyes at the casual form of address, but he didn’t pursue it. The dim lights faded, encapsulating the library in absolute darkness. An effervescent light flickered above, streaming down over the Archmage’s shoulder. Forming a display on the wall in front of Buller, a familiar scene appeared before Peyton--as he knew it would.
The image spread across the entirety of the library, taking on an almost realistic quality as everything settled into place. The sound of rustling leaves, scurrying creatures, fresh morning dew were brought to life around him again.
The main players of the scene came into view--himself, Jamison, Rahel, and Mortidge--and advanced forward into the unknown.
Veteran Delvers, one and all. The assignment was supposed to be an easy thing, but the truth is often shrouded in complexities.
Peyton internally raged, his mind analyzing every sound and sight, looking for the missing link. The things he knew were out there, hiding.
They crossed the forested highlands per protocol, observing the locale for resources and signs of sentient or aggressive life.
Cautionary steps took them many miles through the new world until they stood on the biggest peak they could find, looking over at the world.
But then the video skipped, only returning to see Peyton limping through the Door--alone. The entire landscape from whence he can lay a barren wasteland, ablaze as though the heavens rained wrath upon the lands, scorching and sundering all without fail. With a flash, all light faded once more. Buller flourished his hand, and the library came alight.
Leaning back against the side of a ceiling-high bookcase, Buller stared Peyton down. His eyes analyzed him, searching for… something.
Peyton didn’t flinch, meeting the gaze with his own. Rage roiled and writhed in his chest, the memories surfacing like a hurricane. Haziness glazed over his eyes as he felt himself fading from consciousness.
