Ilurus stared down from the rooftop he was perched on. He was sitting on a ridge end, his legs hanging, his back slightly hunched, his hands idly playing with his silver dagger, fingers rubbing the carved figures and cord shaped lines that spanned the handle's surface. It was early morning, and the market place was already buzzing with activity, merchants having set up their wares and the citizens walking about, buying or discussing. A few stares had darted in his direction, mostly on the part of curious children, often quickly chided by their parents. A few sped up nervously, while an older man looked at him briefly with disdain. The vast majority, however, simply ignored him, going on with their lives. Ilurus simply kept his mournful gaze, envying those people and how they would never experience the shock that the loss of immortality would cause.

The seemingly young man wasn't a native to Shandalar. He was born in another plane of existence, so long ago that he could only barely remember its name, and frankly he didn't want to. It was a rigid, oppressive place, its white marble cities housing people far more sheepish than the natives of that town. Ilurus always felt different and unwelcome, and as the years went by he felt more and more exhausted and depressed, desperately missing something in his life. To fill this void he went out of his way to learn magic, and became specialised in an art known as craft-calling.

Eventually, a straw broke the camel’s back, and he was dragged into the streets, his own friends and family beating him to a bloody pulp. His vision became blurred, but the excruciating pain was forever burned in his memories, as was the moment after they stopped attacking him. After what it seemed an eternity, he heard the metallic slide of a sword being unsheathed, and he knew he was going to die. In that moment, panic erupted, frantic shivers traversing his body like an earthquake, and he begged and implored for his life. The pleas only provoked a cruel laughter from his executioner, who simply swung his sword, aiming at Ilurus' neck, but failing to hit it.

For Ilurus' spark ignited, and he was thrown across the Blind Eternities. Though he was initially confused and scared, he quickly grasped his ability to walk the planes of existence, as well as the sheer power he acquired. Naturally, Ilurus quickly exploited his nature, and found what he always desired: infinite, boundless freedom. He at first travelled the planes as fast as he could, until he quickly run into another such traveller, who assumed the form of a merfolk. She informed him that he was a planeswalker, that not only he had endless power, but that he was at least potentially immortal.

The implications were quick to flash in his mind, and in that moment Ilurus was taken by the greatest, most glorious joy, hugging the bewildered fellow planeswalker and thanking her over and over. Not only had he been given endless freedom, but also the ability to enjoy it forever, to make up for those awful years of oppression. And so he did, those fourteen years of his life dwarfed by 2700 years of adventures and passions, of learning and exploring and loving and feeling and living life to the fullest.

Then, one day, something happened. Ilurus felt a change in his spark, and quickly discovered that his power was lessened significantly. Confused, he searched for other planeswalkers for an answer, and everywhere he went he saw the same thing happen. The Mending, as some and eventually most came to call it, transformed the nature of the spark forever, reducing its power and bringing the planeswalkers as a whole almost to the same level as other mages. To many this was by itself a disaster, but Ilurus simply shrugged. They at least still had magic and could travel the planes, so it wasn't something to be too upset over.

Eventually, however, he discovered another consequence of the Mending: planeswalkers were no longer immortal, they could no long live forever by default of their very nature. Most learned this truth horribly, their immense age catching up to them instantly. Ilurus got off more easily, his body now aging as it should for a human. Not even he understood the why of this, but whatever curiosity he had was dwarfed by the grim realisation that, eventually, he too would die.

Ilurus didn't take that very well. He was terrified, the prospect and inevitability of death dominating his mind, looming in his thoughts constantly. He broke down crying, sobbing uncontrollably until he didn't have tears left to shed. He cursed the very powers he once praised, every deity he had ever learned across the millennia, angrily asking them if their gift of freedom was nothing but a cruel joke. He then implored and begged, before he remembered how he once also pleaded for his life in a similar way, and he was taken by an immense primal rage, breaking and destroying everything in his path, before he was exhausted from his efforts and fainted. During his sleep, horrific nightmares of aging and decay invaded his mind, as did the cruel laughter that he heard before his spark ignited, and he woke up, screaming and shivering and whimpering and crying.

A mere three months after the Mending, Ilurus already felt as if he was old, despite looking far from so. He fell into a deep depression, going through the motions, the passion and enthusiasm he once had extinguished. He planeswalked about, meandering from plane to plane desperately in search of something to distract him from his eventual demise, but at most it was only moments of temporary joy. He was dominated by a heavy, crushing feeling, almost too similar to the memories of his life in his home-plane, and he laughed bitterly at this irony.

Ilurus had planeswalked to Shandalar a week before he was sitting on that rooftop. He wandered about aimlessly, exploring the plane. Ilurus had never been to Shandalar before, though he had heard about it, namely in hearsay about Kenan Sahrmal, Leshrac and Lim-Dûl. He remembered most vividly what he heard once in a conversation he took part of long ago, in a social event that involved several planeswalkers. The memory did summon a smile to Ilurus' face – the place it itself was grandiose, and so was the company. That instance they discussed Sahrmal's numerous exploits, and how his apprentices carried his legacy well after his disappearance. Ilurus briefly expressed the desire to visit it for himself, before the conversation changed to other topics and he forgot about it.

Now he was there, going from town to town, staying at taverns or taking hospitality offers. Even in his depressed state he found Shandalar lively and vibrant, and the intensity of its mana resources cemented the visit to the plane as a good idea, but a cursory thought about how he could and should have done so long ago only intensified Ilurus' grief. He concluded that he'd stay for a while, mentally citing the intense, life-giving mana as an attempt to spite the powers out there that struck him with the inevitability of death. He knew it was a pointless action, however, since he had little talent for vital or necromantic magic, and extending his life through those means would have been out of his reach.

Eventually, he chanced upon that town, a disappointingly unremarkable place in an otherwise vibrant plane. He wandered around, failing to see anything particularly interesting, though he wasn’t particularly invested in the first place. In an attempt to find something interesting he decided to take a look from above, jumping to a low-laying roof from a pile of crates. From there he walked around until he reached the opposite edge, and then jumped to another roof. There he kept climbing, sat down, and the rest is history.

Ilurus sighed. He had been staring at the streets below for quite a while, not quite sure how to do from there. As if on cue, a wind began to blow, a gentle breeze that blew from his left to his right. At first it felt rather good, as if soothing the planeswalker from his depression. However, as it began increasing in intensity a strange sensation started to fill the air. It was as if a presence urged him to move, to go somewhere. Said presence was also deeply unnerving for reasons Ilurus couldn’t quite put a finger on, sending a shiver down his spine.

He rose quickly, almost falling from the edge. The presence seemed to intensify, and in response so did his fear. Panicking he looked about, trying to get an idea from where that presence came from. Ilurus saw nothing unusual, but as he figured that the wind had something to do with it, and as such decided to go away in the opposite direction. Quickly he began drawing mana from every mountain he knew, including the place where he entered Shandalar, Valkas. Thankfully, his fear helped strengthen his mana bonds, and soon he had enough reserves to weave his favoured form of magic.

Ilurus tapped into the creative intent behind the creation of those tiles and rooftops, to their essence. To him, inanimate objects seemed alive, as if they had souls of their own, as if the purpose given to them by their creators gave them distinct personalities. He often compared that kind of experience to what forest mages had with the vegetation and landscape, to find life in what more practical spell casters dismissed as lifeless objects. Artifacts, however, were infused with artistic passion or purpose, and in this he felt his talents were much different, much more human and intimate as he knew he was tapping into things created by other sapient beings.

As he connected himself to the tiles, he felt their protective nature, their connection to each other as each piece formed a greater whole. Though they felt rather dull, practical and simple constructs as they were, he could sense a degree of artistry and passion, of the need for aesthetic pleasure to some degree as well as individual variations. In this he found kinship with them, and in turn they gladly shaped to his needs, the tiles shifting and changing forms to suit his needs. Tremors began to rumble each rooftop, and soon they joined together to form a single connecting bridge, allowing Ilurus to run non-stop from building to building.

He sped up quickly, trying to outrun the wind, to leave that unsettling presence behind. To his relief that seemed to be working, with the presence gradually disappearing as he kept running. Not risking it catching up to him again he continued, quickly covering up most of the town as he raced from building to building, until he finally reached the final house, at the northern outskirts of the settlement. There, he couldn’t run anymore, and once he reached the end of his rooftop bridge he stopped, stunned by what he saw.

Before the down was the might and splendour of the Eloren Wilds. Though Ilurus wasn’t a forest mage he still admired spectacular landscapes to a passionate degree, and that was no exception. The wilderness began just a few meters outside the town out fences, and extended for miles in all directions, as far as Ilurus’ eye could see. Rich perfumes emanated from it, among the strongest and most varied the planeswalker had sampled in a long time, luring him in into the woods. He was almost tempted from jumping right into them, if he hadn’t noticed the countless thorned vines. They spanned every space between each tree, wicked and sharp, almost as if the wilds themselves were a single giant rosebush.

Suddenly, an immensely strong gust of wind hit Ilurus from his rear angle, projecting him into the air into the wilds. The planeswalker flew high into the air, so shocked that he was unable to scream. In that moment he realised that everything he feared for the past few three months was finally going to happen, and he couldn’t help but cry, tears moving trailing upwards as he fell. He hugged his dagger to his chest, the right hand over the clenched left hand.

Just as he was reaching the canopy, however, the air whirled beneath and then around, hampering down his fall. It wasn’t a pleasant process, violently swinging him about in wide circles, as if he was trapped in a tornado. Nausea quickly piled within, and Ilurus tried his best to not throw up, his right hand releasing the dagger to cover his mouth. He quickly noticed that he wasn’t just parachuting, but also being carried away further into the forest, and what little comfort not dying gave him was quickly replaced by the realisation that this was the doing of another spellcaster. He was at the mercy of another mage, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

In a few minutes he was carried over to a small clearing in the wilds, the canopy slowly ascending around him as the whirlpool gently carried him downwards. The planeswalker remained aloft until around a meter or so above the ground, when the air stopped moving and Ilurus landed suddenly on his back. To its credit the grass and other vegetation were very soft and he didn’t feel pain, but the shock was still enough to cause a small scream. He breathed fast and deeply, and quickly felt that thick perfume flood his nostrils, more intense and thick than before.

As Ilurus inhaled he began relaxing, his lungs filled with a vibrant, pleasant fragrance unlike everything he ever experienced. Around him were flowers of many kinds, shapes and colours he had never seen, tall and obscuring his view from the more distant surroundings. Not that he minded, however: they were beautiful, and almost certainly the source of those scents. For a moment the planeswalker lost himself in those pleasant scents and sights, forgetting about his fears, and for the first time in those three months he felt genuinely happy, drinking those sensations ravenously. He laid down on the ground, releasing the grip in his dagger, staring at the open blue midday sky, taken over by bliss and contentment.

Then he felt that presence again, instantly surrounding him in all directions with a vicious intensity. Ilurus quickly got up, letting his dagger slip out of his palm. Panicking he tried to reached down and grab it, but the presence was overwhelming and he was paralysed by fear. Around him the forest was governed by the thorned vines, even seemingly replacing the trees as the dominant vegetation altogether, standing upwards in twisted, looping frames. From the woods came low murmurs in a language that Ilurus never heard, in exceptionally weird voices that vaguely resembled bird calls. They intensified, and Ilurus couldn’t help but whimper.

Likewise, the presence around him only seemed to intensify, until was unbearably omnipresent. He it did Ilurus finally understood why it was unnerving: it was tremendously primal and almost mind-numbingly alien, older and more bizarre than anything the planeswalker had ever known, as if the Blind Eternities themselves had begun bleeding into that world. More than anything it felt crushingly inevitable and oppressive, almost reminding Ilurus of his fear of death. Only that he realised that there was a feeling of pulsing, almost permeating vitality, which made him simultaneously confused in its paradox and enraged at the mockery of his situation.

Ilurus considered planeswalking out of there immediately, and began gathering mana. But then he heard the sound of wind whirling between vegetation, and looked below. To his horror, a smaller tornado suspended his dagger in air right at the level of his knees, before darting above at his eye level. The planeswalker franticly tried to grab it with both hands, but it slipped downwards and was carried behind him. Ilurus turned, and that’s when he saw them.

At the edges of the clearing, just outside the thorned vines, were three imposing figures. At the centre but not foremost was a hunched figure wearing a thick cloak, mostly black but with white inner vests, her sleeves touching and obscuring her hands. The face was grey, full of wrinkles and warts and a distinctive crooked nose, indicating the figure as some sort of hag. Her eyes were of a metallic gold trimmed by a blackening in the whites, as if they belonged to some predatory beast, and what appeared to be dead fern leaves hang down on her temples. Above all she looked almost impossibly tired and drained, and Ilurus almost felt sorry for her, were it not for the fact that the mysterious presence emanated partly from her.

Her company also emanated that presence, and they were far more intimidating. To her left was the tallest of the three, what appeared to be a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her skin was green, glimmering as if it was wet, reminding Ilurus of a frog. Her fingers were united by a membrane, and strange, gill-like fringes adorned her otherwise very human face. The planeswalker thought that she was a merfolk, but he noticed that her hair was made of kelp and seaweed, forming thick dreadlocks that extended well past her shoulders. Her eyes were fairly normal, having simply black irises, the same colour of her lips. Glowing blue tattoos adorned her arms and legs, and she was dressed in a loose cyan tunic. She seemed to be stoic, but Ilurus felt a subdued, intense malice in her eyes.

To the hag’s right was a young woman, slightly less talk than their companion. She had pointed ears, making her look distinctively elven, but her features were softer and more human-like than most elves Ilurus had seen. Her skin was tanned, and she wore a brown leather torso vest that didn’t extend past her midriff, grey leather lower arm strappings and fingerless gloves, thick black boots and beige cotton jeans. Her hair was composed of oak leaves, some brown and falling, and her eyes were of a deep, bloody red. She had a twisted smile on her face, radiating a wicked joy, yet emanating some type of rage. Ilurus realised that she was suppressing the urge to attack him, trying her hardest to not give in to some murderous intent. Of all of them she was the one that unnerved the planeswalker the most, and he figured he had some good reasons to think that.

Looking more closely the planeswalker saw that someone was behind the hag, hiding partly in the foliage, the combination of the horned vines and the bodies of the others obscuring his view. Ilurus’ attention quickly shifted from it as the dagger was descending in front of the hag. As he reached her eye level he saw her sleeves parting, leaving long, twisted fingers ending on black talons, both hands cupping. The dagger landed softly right there, the fingers forming a morbid cage around it.

“Forgive our manners,” the hag said, her voice an echoing, profound sound akin to colliding slabs of lead, which hurt Ilurus’ head just by hearing it, “but we wish to have a word with you.”

“It was not our intention to frighten you” the merfolk said, her voice also echoing and primal, only barely more pleasant to the ear. Ilurus could sense a subtle, malicious sarcasm.

“We simply want to strike a deal,” the hag continued, “one from which you can benefit.”

Ilurus supressed a hiccup. He wanted to go away, far from those creatures. Getting himself involved with them would be a fool’s errand, one he would not fall for.

“Give me back my dagger” he pleaded, sounding more desperate than he wanted.

The merfolk and the half-elf glanced over at each other, sharing a morbid grin, definitely taking pleasure at Ilurus’ begging. The hag remained stoic, however, her features assuming a stern look.

“We would like if you heard us first” the hag said, with an edge to her voice.

“Then you can planeswalk” the half-elf said, her voice also echoing but surprisingly lacking the abyssal age, as if she was truly as young as she appeared to be. Unlike the merfolk’s it was openly mocking, lacking any subtlety whatsoever.

“Oh yes, we know what you are” the merfolk said, her voice losing some of its dishonesty itself, “otherwise we would not have bothered.”

“Sister, that is rather rude” the half-elf said over to the merfolk playfully, fully enjoying herself.

The merfolk in turn shared a sly smirk, shrugging in jest. Once more the hag seemed unaffected by this, and continued:

“Once again, we wish nothing more than to bargain. Should you be inclined in help us not only will you get your dagger back, but you will be rewarded handsomely for your troubles.”

As if on cue, she moved to her left, next to the merfolk, and all of the three took a further step back, facing the centre reverently. And as they did so the vines in the revealed space receded completely with a loud rattling sound, revealing the fourth figure.

She looked like a young girl, probably somewhere between 10 and 13, dressed in long, silk-like garments, shifting from gold to green to white to blue in a psychedelic succession, which combined with sunlight-reflected glimmers of other colours quickly began to hurt Ilurus’ sight. Her long hair was at the same time unnaturally flowing and unnaturally rigid, which the planeswalker discovered to be due to the fact that it was made of grass blades. On her back were two massive green objects, forming a pair of concave blades above each shoulder and extending all the way to her feet, which Ilurus understood to be wings made from palm-fronds. Her pale, round face was full of freckles, but Ilurus barely noticed them as he found her piercing eyes. They, like the dress, also shifted in colour, from a warm honey-tone to a calm blue, as if they couldn’t decide what colour they wanted to be. They seemed to radiate a child-like innocence, and this comforted the planeswalker for a second, but like with the others he quickly felt a primal, profound power, no less terrifying than what he felt in the orders. To make matters worse they also emanated a strong sense of righteous indignation.

Suddenly she rose her hands, and an intense golden light began to shine in front of her, as if she had summoned the sun. Ilurus, whose eyes were already hurting from her rapid colour-shifting, instantly shielded them with his left hand. He was quickly prompted to look again, however, as he felt a strange feeling radiating from the light, as if it was an answer to a question he long sought. The light still shone strongly and hurt his eyes, but it quickly decreased, shaping into a large, circular object before the girl. It reminded the planeswalker of the process of forging, though he knew she was simply summoning something that already existed.

Finally, it “cooled down” into a massive round shield, large enough to hide away most of the girl’s upper body, except from her hands, which grasped the sides. The shield seemed to be made from a deep, dark green emerald and a particularly bright gold, weaving into strange patterns and designs. There were three major inner circles, each carved and forming a subsequent stepping in relief. At the centre was its most notable feature: an engraving of white bird, vaguely similar to a dove, its wings open and its legs stretched as if it was launching.

By itself the shield was very aesthetically pleasing to Ilurus, but it paled utterly to its true essence, its spirit, its purpose. It emanated an intense, life-giving energy, pulsing so intensely that it the surrounding forest seem like a life and mana-less wasteland. By itself this was extremely, intensely alluring to the desperate planeswalker, a true proverbial carrot in front of the ass. Additionally, however, the shield had a distinctive feeling of constancy and security; not only was its purpose was to protect from all evils, but also to preserve whoever held it from all harm. Ilurus was quick to grasp the implications, and as if on cue the object became even more desirable, urging him to take possession. He fell to his knees, defeated, reaching faintly with his left hand as he supressed a whimper.

At this half-elf laughed, a loud, roar-like sound that sent shivers down Ilurus’ spine. The merfolk smiled her twisted smirk once more, taking a step forward.

“So I take it we have a deal?” she said, more mockingly than anything.

Ilurus paused hesitantly, his eyes shifting from figure to figure, before he gave a defeated sight.

“Yes. Just tell me what to do.”

The hag looked at the child. The latter moved not a single muscle, staying still to an almost doll-like degree, but the hag nodded as if she was ordered to do something and turned towards Ilurus.

“We are looking for three artifacts hidden in this plane.”

“S-so you’re planeswalkers?” Ilurus braved, almost immediately regretting his decision as the hag’s eyes edged slightly.

“Thousands of years ago the planeswalker known as Kenan Sahrmal found three powerful artifacts in Shandalar, and saw fit to hide them, lest other planeswalkers track their origin to this plane. Do you know of The Shard?”

Ilurus nodded. He was aware of its basic gist, of it being a planar barrier that once prevented planeswalkers from entering or leaving 11 entire planes. Shandalar passed through it in its unusual motions, and through it several beings tried to escape. That chain of events lead to Sahrmal’s conflict with Lim-Dûl, ending with him forced to leave the very plane he protected. Nobody had seen him ever since, and most planeswalkers he died.

“Kenan was no fool, much to our grievance” the merfolk lamented, “He took the liberty to weave wards powerful into the artifacts based on the principles of The Shard. Wards so powerful that they hid them even from Arzakon’s little spell, and now we still can’t find them on our own.”

“Thus, we find ourselves in need your assistance” the hag continued, “Most artificers cannot bypass the wards, but you can. You are connected to the very essences of artifacts.”

“How do you know what I can and can’t do?” Ilurus blurted quickly. How long had they been spying on him?

“We can tell” the half-elf intervened, her tone both boastful and mocking, “We can feel your passion, your connection to things crafted by puny mortals.”

“Yes, we empathise with your mentality, to put it simply” said the merfolk, rather flatly and with a slight hint of disgust.

The hag glanced briefly at both, edging her eyes. There was a small hint of nervousness, which Ilurus savoured immensely. Not only was a respite from that oppressive atmosphere, it was also very satisfying to see that ancient, unnerving creature be at lost with something. If either the merfolk, the girl or the half-elf were aware of both the hag’s weakness – or of Ilurus’ relaxation - they didn’t show.

“It matters not how we know” continued the hag, “only that we do. Get us the artifacts, and you will know immortality once more.”

Ilurus glanced over one last time at the shield. It was so aluring, so far yet so close, causing within him a frustration that gnawed viciously and intensely, almost eclipsing the atmosphere of opression and fear. Yes, he’d do anything to get it, even if his life wasn’t at stake.

“I’m going to need my dagger.”

The half-elf and the merfolk laughed in unison, their sudden burst frightening Ilurus into a small scream. Their laughter actually complimented each other very well in a way, the half-elf’s an almost roar-like release and the merfolk’s a very petty cackle, that together harmonised into a sound that made the planeswalker feel both unnerved and humiliated. For beings so otherwordly these figures were capable of a quite relatable pettiness, which only made the planeswalker fear them more.

Thankfully, the hag agreed to his terms, extending her long-taloned left hand. Its fingers grasped the dagger lightly, its handle not even touching her palm, which was admitely very small, almost as if the digits sprouted from her bony wrist. Ilurus was quick to raise his own palms, in a posture he regretted displaying his blatant begging, where she dropped it casually. The dagger fell by its blade, but the craft-caller wasn’t harmed at all, and he quickly clutched it with both hands, bringing it to his chest as if he was a child with a doll. The half-elf once more responded with laughter, which snapped Ilurus out of his brief comfort.

The planeswalker rose back to his feet. He began drawing mana once more, his turbulent state helping him to connect better to the mountains. He closed his eyes and raised his hands, the dagger clenched tighly by his left one. He began channeling the mana, and his senses began to dim, while his connection to the object increased. The hilt became at the same time an extension of his arm, as if the hand had either fused or was replaced by it, and a seperate being, radiating its own unique passion. The dagger was crafted by Ilurus himself long ago, infused with his own creative energies and spirit, bearing thus a “personality” that was both like him, yet clearly distinct. It felt as if it was his twin, his constant companion and closest friend. It emanated its own passion, and together their power was greatly amplified, even after the Mending. Connecting with it, Ilurus felt comforted, the fear dissipating and being replaced by an emotionally revitalising energy

“What are the objects you’re looking for?” he asked, still anxious but now in a more austere confidence. His eyes opened, radiating a faint orange glow from the irises.

“They are three in number” the hag asked, a subtle joy in her otherwise formal voice, “A spindle, a rod and a pair of scissors. They are apart, but they share the same creator.”

“They share the same creator as this shield” said the young girl for the first time.

Her voice was simultaneously melodious and austere, carrying an immense self-righteousness. Ilurus was intimidated, but he felt also a sense of disgust that he hadn’t with the other figures, and had he not been desperate as he was he would have imediately called off the deal and planeswalked away. The girl seemed to notice this, her eyes radiating a bizarre mixture of smug superiority and odious outrage, though her face did not move a single muscle.

The negative emotions once more aided the craft-caller, however, as it boosted his power further. Closing his eyes once more, Ilurus took a deep breath, and unleashed his spell in a single, massive pulse, a wave that spread in all directions. It was something akin to a distress call, seeking to call forth the artifacts into revealing their locations by themselves. It was a voiceless message, just raw emotion put to the specific end of demanding their presence to be known. Artifacts always responded back, and in this Ilurus always found a sense of satisfaction, in that he couldn’t be ignored.

Sure enough, he was quick to pick on the signature of one of the entioned artifacts. It pulsed its own energy back at him, as if it was calling back. It had the same intense radiation as the shield, but instead of life force it emanated another type of vitality, that of an intense, blood-quickening passion. It seemed to flare back a sense of joy like a dog greeting its owner, reacting to the planeswalker’s seeking wave in a vibrant, pleased fashion. Ilurus liked the object already, and flared another spell, indicating his desire to find it.

“I already found the rod.”

“Excellent!” said the hag, for once showing overt excitement, “Go forth and bring it back to us.”

Ilurus intended to protest, but the half-elf glanced over at him, her eyes flaring in a fiery light. She wasn’t angry; on the contrary, she radiated a wicked joy, at the prospect of something. Her features twisted in a maddened glee, the combination of the glowing eyes and her wide, ear-to-ear smile creating a visage that would be burned into the planeswalker’s nightmares. Perhaps the most terrifying thing about that sudden grin was that Ilurus couldn’t quite put a finger on what triggered it. If it was simply too scare him off, she looked way too jubilant and hysterical.

Ilurus nervously bowed, excusing himself. The other figures said or did nothing, only stared deeply into him, immobile as stone. The exception was the merfolk, who smiled cruelly, before looking over at the half-elf, sharing with her the same mutual amusement as before. The half-elf turned her head to the merfolk, and in this moment Ilurus took the liberty to dart off. He run as fast as he could, away from the figures and in the direction of the rod. He panicked as he remembered he was in a clearing surrounded by thorned vines, but then he saw some movement at the right edges.

The thorned vines began moving away, forming an open path into the wilderness. Ilurus wasted no time running through it, stopping occasionally as it twisted into tight curves. Overall, however, it followed his own sense of direction, and he just focused on getting out of the wilds. In his speed he almost tripped over a still retreating vine, but quickly regained his balance, anxiously jumping forward.

He run for what felt like an eternity. Through it he heard the distant calls of birds and the bellow of an elk, both of which calmed him down somewhat in their beauty. Eventually, the path opened up to a larger clearing, the vines ending and being replaced by rolling meadows with sparse trees. Ilurus turned around, looking back at the Eloren Wilds. The vines closed off the path, walling it off once more. By itself the wilderness was formidable and unpenetrable, its beauty one which now demanded isolation. The presence of the four radiated from it, further discouraging Ilurus to turn back.

And he didn’t. He moved away from the forest, following the rod’s signal. With each step he took, the object’s essence drowned that of the four. For the first time in three months, Ilurus had something to inspire hope within him, and he couldn’t help but grin, hurrying up towards his ticket to immortality.

***
Ilurus’ tracking of the rod lead him to the Kingdom of Thune. It was about as counter-intuitive as it got, the object’s passion at odds with the organised, militaristic nation, and he supposed that was the point. The artifact’s signal was now flaring more intensely, and Ilurus couldn’t help but smile. It was as excited about being found as he was of saving his own life.

Ilurus found himself on a city plaza. He had been on the city for a couple of hours, having stopped briefly to rest and buy supplies. The planeswalker didn’t like the sheepish atmosphere of the place, and tried to hasten his search as much as possible. The rod’s call was then very intense and impatient, and his eyes scoured the place for a possible lead to its hiding place.

The signal came most strongly from bellow, which Ilurus guessed to mean that it was on some sort of underground chamber or tunnel. There were many possible entrances down there: stores, alleyways, a tavern, a library. Ilurus whined in frustration, impatient as he was, and decided to just blow the entire place up and make his way downwards by force. He began drawing in mana once again, preparing to just unleash his rage unto the earth. Whatever it shaped into - an earthquake, the ground melting into lava, or something else altogether - was beyond his ability to care.

“Excuse me, are you alright?”

Ilurus turned. Walking towards him was a young blonde man, his eyes blue as the sky. He was wearing a uniform of some sort, pegging him as a guard or soldier to the planeswalker. He was slightly shorter than the mage, but carried himself with enough austerity to look eye-to-eye with him. Ilurus found him rather pleasing to his eyes, and combined with the genuine concern on the young man’s face the planeswalker felt somewhat guilty for wanting to blow up the plaza.

“Yes, I, uh, was just wondering about if there were tunnels or something beneath the city. I’m new around here, so I don’t know where to run if things got out of hand, you know.”

The guard frowned, though there was a hint of amusement on his face.

“I can show you the evacuation routes if the push comes to shove, but one can only enter the catacombs to honour the ancestors. And even then one needs an escort to go down there. We can’t just risk having any thieves steal our relics.”

“That makes sense” Ilurus supposed, “Would you know where I can get an escort?”

“I could go with you if you so wish” offered the blonde man, “Just let me inform my supervisor.”

Ilurus felt very conflicted at the man’s proposal. On the one hand, not only was supervision at best problematic, but the eventual moment he turned on him would be unnecessarily bitter. On the other, the planeswalker was in a hurry, and he didn’t feel like turning down the guard’s offer, especially given how it was so freely offered. Antagonising him would not be in his best interests, and he could use some orientation in order to make the retrieval quicker. Plus, he didn’t feel like turning him away right then. Yes, he’d find a way to deal with his reaction later.

“By all means do” Ilurus said, with a little more enthusiasm than he meant.

The guard smiled eagerly, as if enjoying the prospect.

“I’ll be here in half-an-hour” he said, turning to leave.

“Wait!” Ilurus said before the guard had a chance to leave, “What’s your name?”

“Dakan” he answered.

“Nice to the ear.”

“Flatterer. And yours?”

“Ilurus.”

“What an unusual name. I take it you’re not from Thune?”

“Pretty much so” Ilurus shrugged.

“That might make getting the permission I need harder” Dakan said, scratching his chin, “But I’ll try nonetheless.”

“Why go through the trouble, though?” Ilurus asked, “For all you know I could just be a thief.”

“So you’d rather not have me help you?”

“N-no, I’m just curious.”

“Well, I guess I’m just expecting the best of those I come across” Dakan said, with a slight wistful tone, “For every thief there is at least two honest pilgrims, hoping to commune with those who have passed. I have faith that there is more good in the average person than there is ill intent.”

Dakan paused, sighing, his eyes meeting Ilurus’ fleetingly.

“I know I may seem like a naïve idealist, but believe me when I’ve seen darkness in the world. Some pretty horrible, unimaginable things. I just chose to not let it affect me.”

“And you’re all the better for it” said Ilurus, who meant it honestly, though he realised that, given the circumstances, he was pretty much licking boots.

Dakan nodded, briefly looking distantly, as if reminiscing, before turning back to Ilurus with a smile.

“I should be back in half-an-hour, though I might have to call you in to fill some permits.”

“As long as this isn’t some bizarrely convoluted ploy to arrest me” Ilurus answered in a mock-coyly manner.

“Oh, actual arrest should be swifter in these parts. Bureaucracy only goes so far.”

“Alright, I’ll follow your example on this and expect the best” at this response, Ilurus could see a pleased smile on Dakan’s face, and that made him grin back, “I’ll be at the tavern down that street.”

“Good taste. You’ve already been there?”

“No. I guess luck’s on my side, when it comes to choosing.”

Ilurus could see Dakan blushing slightly at the comment. The planeswalker smiled understandingly, nodding, giving him permission to leave non-verbally. The guard did so, somewhat hastily, leaving towards a street at a parallel angle to the tavern’s. As he did Dakan glanced back hopefully some two or three times, before resuming what Ilurus assumed to be an attempt to remain formal.

And as he watched the blonde man leave, Ilurus couldn’t help but forget about death.