The sorcerer’s keep

[“The hogwarts equivalent of imaginary is without residents.  It lacks the elements and energy needed to further the plot of the earth arc.”  (I take one look at this train and call in a detour.)  Horn tooting imminent:]

It was born from the brink of desolation.  With the fall of the titan’s, their presence washed out across the land.  Seeping into the land and fusing with the realm of the spirits.  They were not taken kindly, and rebelled against their new form.

From treachery emerged the era of storms.  The sky fell, and life as we know it was driven from the mountains.  The once glorious skyline leveled and pulped.

There was no exception.  Humanity managed to endure the cataclysm for days, yet were lost to history within a week.  Piece by piece, Infrastructure was crippled.  Trade routes were blocked in a heartbeat.  Aquifers were cracked open.  Rations began to rot.  A chorus of resolution rang out across the hills.  Most fled.  Many held their ground.  No one was safe.

Civilization dissolved.  Rocked by seisms, eruptions, sinkholes and severe weather.  Those who escaped were battered.  A shadow of what they had been.  Those that fell to the march of the storm were stripped of their identity.  Forgotten to all but time itself.

The future and the present were drained from the land, replaced with a char-mulched desert.  It may very well have been abandoned forever, had it not been for a bold expedition and a lull in the storm.

Magicians, following the trail of wayward souls and arcane residue, forged through the beaten hills.  They had many goals among them.  Fragments of the titans’ magic.  Souls lingering beyond the rim.  The scope of utter destruction.

No one expected to find ruins.  The land itself was razed beyond remnants.  Even then, it was churning at every turn.

So when they did it was a revelation.  The footprint of a city was discovered.  It held form, an aura, and even the machination of souls.  Echoes clung to the structures.  Pulling a veil of persistence upon the slag.

It was the work of humility, to free the souls and recover familiars from the grave.  Even as they warned against resurgent storms, the magicians watched as the remnant began to crumble.  All but the city's heart evaporated.  The ground beneath their feet collapsed without the will of the congregation.  What structure remained would not survive the sprites they saw dotting the horizon.

Their window was short as it was.

It was, however, the seed that returned with them.  While expeditions were sent to loosen the knots every other season, a cause began to grow among the magicians.  A heart, unlike any other.  A city that had resolved not one but two strom seasons before falling dormant.

Guided by visions of the aggrieved, This cult launched a convoy like no other.  Brought siege to defenseless city, and planted roots of their own.  The souls and familiars were eventually free of their grave, but not before the Magicians could fabricate their own.

Years passed as a canopy of wards, incantations and wellsprings rose from the husk.  The dead city braised and mutilated beneath the power of the storm.  By the second year, souls began to stay behind.  By the eighth, apprentices were brought on.

At this time, the sorcerer's stronghold is both the proving ground, and golden goose of magicraft.  Herbs, ores, and precious stones are milled from the mountains each year.  Abundant with raw magic, physical integrity and spiritual purity.  The art of sorcery has been respected across the world for the boon of the stronghold.

It is far from perfect.  While versed in their craft, and mindful of their successors, the Council of the keep is responsible for the stronghold first and foremost.  Be they matters personal or ethical, the storms simply do not care.  The magicians choose to adopt a conflict with nature and harness it with their craft.

No soul - no matter how connected - can dictate circumstance.  (Exorcised from time.)

[(Hah!  Take that pessimism!)

“Isn’t this a rehash of Tracy’s original enclave?”

(“Isn’t this a derivative of thing 1” No!  Shutup!  How dare me!  …Should be asking Tracy about that kinda stuff.)

Contemplates corruption themes, “I'm not sure about that one chief.  Maybe later, but this is a decent addition meanwhile.”

(This, my friends, is how you butcher the fourth wall.  Also, please appreciate that sensitive side of me has been doubling up these last few segments rather than stretching them out.  He's been skeptical about my prospects, and we're splitting for confidence.)]