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DaftJive
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In a space walled with smoothened rock and cluttered mana crystals lay a hatchling. It was a thing of beauty, its head and tail tip glistening with vivid blue scales, the rest of its body a brilliant sapphire pink. But the hatchling neither knew or cared of beauty or what constituted as such, and so it slept, curled up with its snout tucked between its paws and tail curled around its form.
Lying so small and still, it seemed no different from the gem it resembled, if one were to disregard the rise and fall of its chest as it snored quietly.
The ground rumbled with movement of something large moving nearby. It was familiar movement, so the hatchling did not rouse. Instead, it was inclined to fall into deeper slumber for the comfort those rumbles brought it.
And so it curled up tighter, surrounded by the light of raw mana, content and at peace.
~
So. Raw mana.
The wizards who studied it claimed that it came from the heart of their world, a centre that was buried deep beneath the water and soil that made up their lands. Crystallised potential, some called it. Because that was what it was: potential, will, intention. The essence of what could and would be. The magic they held could be shaped, could be tamed, could be directed into anything its wielder wished it to be.
It was for these same reasons that raw mana could also be such a pain in the neck. There was no need for the mana to be crystallised or refined for the Old Ones to use them; they just did. Lia had ducked away from the hands that grabbed at her, but there was no escaping the thick plume of mana that wafted around her in a vapour that felt like nothing and felt like sludge at the same time. It draped around her wings, weighing them down, cushioning them. It invaded her lungs, even as she held her breath in vain. It embraced her, thick and cloying and warm. It said:
Be calm. Be calm. Be calm.
Reverbrations scraped through the air. The mana shook off her. The shock of free fall had Lia snapping her wings open, coughing and gasping as she got her breath back. How much time had passed? Had she actually stopped breathing because the Old One had asked? What the hell just happened? The questions flipped through her mind in rapid fire, but one look at the scene before her and she got the only answer that mattered.
Time to finish this.
Mr Helmet Man had put his sword to good use, after all – rammed it right up the creature’s gut. The Old One itself stayed where it was, hands limp, gelatinous body trembling. It had a face beneath that porcelain mask. A child’s. Its mouth was open in a silent scream.
Lia lifted her crossbow.
‘Draw.’
Out shot a jet of magic from the crystal embedded in her collarbone. Midnight blue, glowing ethereally, it curved and jammed into the rail of her crossbow, gathering and expanding impossibly in the tight space. Without hesitation, Lia aimed and fired.
The Magic Bolt disappeared into the Old One’s mouth in a split second.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the Old One’s head tipped back in a kneejerk motion. Moonlight shone out of its false eyes and mouth.
It howled.
Loud, mournful... and pointless. Screaming wouldn’t do it any good now. As if to prove her point, the howl stuttered off abruptly as something deep within its body gave off a muffled thoom. The moonlight faded. The raised half of the Old One’s body began to fall. Mr Helmet Man should probably move out of the way.
Before Lia could do so much as call out, though, something else pierced through the cavernous space. Distant. Shrill. Over and over it went, like a tiny, little alarm.
‘Eep! Eep! Eep!’
‘Huh,’ muttered Lia. It sounded a lot like one of those baby birds crying for their mother. ‘If this thing has a kid, the nerds are gonna have kittens.’
The Älvenkryp slumped to the ground with a thump.
