The Mesmer's Path
The Mesmer continued, his footprints sinking into the snow. He hummed lightly to himself, and felt the power of the incantation well up through his voice, quiet as it was. A stab of pain shot through him as he aged a thousand moons, took a thousand blades to his chest, then all was quiet. He hobbled like an old man, the illusion of weakness wrapped around him like a blanket pulled too tight. He didn't know what hidden perils prompted him to cast that particular spell, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He sat down to rest, wheezing like an old man. It seemed so real; the pain, the discrete shake of his hands and the skin hanging off the veins in his wrist.
The crunch of a pinecone sounded nearby, and the Mesmer tensed. He was once again alert. Power hummed around him as he stood, planted his feet, and lifted his cane. The long hardwood staff was silhouetted against the glimmering lights in the sky, but the violet orb of swirling colors set into the head of the cane glowed brightly. The enemy knew he was here. And was only seconds away from attack. The Mesmer gently stroked his cane and whispered lovingly to it, and the light in the orb calmed. He closed his eyes and outstretched his staff in meditation. He listened to the foreign heartbeat, fast but steady, getting closer.
The time was upon him, he uttered three words, and his staff vanished as he gripped onto the hilt of an invisible sword. He parried the axe shrieking towards his head, and then pivoted out of the way. The Avicara snarled at him and flexed its fingers on the hilt of the axe. They circled each other, waiting for any slight drop in defenses. A twig snapped, and another heart beat into the Mesmer's senses, a healer. This battle would not be easily won. He lunged at the Avicara, his sword slashing at its side, triggering a primal snarl from it. The Avicara monk sang softly and the wound closed. The Mesmer swore viciously. He would have to deal with the monk if anything were to be done.
Lifting his chin, he called out in a booming voice, and felt the spirit of the ether lord enter his body. he pointed at the monk and snarled, watching the monk pale, and struggle to keep alert. The Mesmer turned back to the axe warrior, and lifted his weapon. Once again he sliced, and once again his opponent howled with pain. But this time, there was no relief for him. They fought, axe against sword, heart against beating heart. The monk struggled, attempting to chant, but his voice would not move, he was silenced, forced to watch his comrade dying.
Both bloodied, Mesmer and warrior circled for the last time. Their pupils large, they focused for an entry, any entry to deliver the final blow. They lunged at each other, weapons catching and twisting. The Mesmer could not win in a battle of strength. He whistled, and the invisible weapon glowed with orange fire. The fire surged forward from the sword to the axe, to the Avicara, burning the energy from it. It shrieked, and relaxed its grip ever so slightly. That was all the Mesmer needed, he lunged and buried his blade into his opponents gut, and twisted. The blade shattered into a thousand pieces of air, and the Mesmer picked up his staff once again, to face the monk. Its eyes were wide, looking from the dead axe warrior to the opponent facing it.
It planted its feet, and lifted its chin, placing its palms together and whispering a spell for rebirth. The Mesmer laughed and lunged with his cane, breaking its concentration. It cried out in frustration, and slapped its palms together once more. The Mesmer tapped his cane to the ground and then to the sky, and a great bolt of violet fire struck the monk, shattering the precious enchantments it had placed around itself. The Mesmer attacked with his cane as the Avicara launched prayers of harm at him.
The Mesmer needed a new sword. He planted his feet, about to summon it with an incantation, when he noticed the monk smile, and begin the sign for enchantment removal. Without the sword his fight was lost. The Mesmer closed his eyes and sent up a wordless prayer to Lyssa, then began chanting the spell he hoped he would not have to use. The Mesmer's voice boomed, traveling along the snow-topped peaks, echoing the arcane art of the invisible sword. The mountains rumbled in response, unhappy at being awoken. Mesmer and monk both paled, frighteningly aware of the mountain's looming retaliation.
A white storm roared towards them, and they ran, feud forgotten. The Avicara tripped, set off balance by the shaking ground, and screamed as it was swallowed up into the snow. The victory was bitter, as the snow approached, threatening to swallow the Mesmer whole. A life spent devoted to the lady of illusions swept through his thoughts. A warmth filled his body, and he knew she was there, protecting him. The goddess would let no harm come to one of her own. He stopped, and turned to face the storm, dropped to his knees and prayed to Lyssa for acceptance, as the snow swallowed his body.
