Of Mystery and Magicka Forgotten

Your eyes open. Light floods into them for the first time in centuries. It is difficult to move at first. Your body is numb. Drawing a deep breath through your nose, you smell metal.

You hear approaching footsteps on a marble floor. Summoning all your strength, you force yourself to a seated position. The light begins to subside.

An eerie discomfort envelops your soul as you realize that you don’t know who you are. You cannot remember your name, where you came from, who you are, how old you are. It’s as though nothingness itself washed away your memory like a tidal wave of amnesia.

You are alone in a 14’x12’ room sitting on an altar of obsidian. Directly in front of you is a bent outwards reinforced cast iron door. It appears as though it has been punched by a titan. You’re able to move your head, and you look side to side taking note of your surroundings. A narrow slit in the ceiling lets the setting sun into the room. The walls of the room have themselves been impacted by an extraordinary amount of energy. You are sure that someone must have kept an ogre in this room previously.

The footsteps stop outside the door.

“Who’s there?” you shout out. The echo of your booming voice bounces around the room.

“Forgive the transition, my lord. Your numbness will subside,” replied a female voice from the other side of the door. She sounds attractive.

You’re able to move your legs, and you hoist yourself off of the altar. You begin to stretch. Several minutes pass before you realize that the footsteps never left the outside of your door.

“You’re still there, aren’t you?” you inquire forcefully.

“Of course,” the woman replies softly.

“Where am I?” you demand.

No reply.

“Where am I?” you insist.

The hairs on your arms begins to stand on end as you begin to feel nauseated. You notice the door beginning to change shape. It turns into a flowing sheet of metal before your eyes as though it were bedsheets hanging over a clothesline.

A figure walks through as the door sticks to her body. Her movements are graceful; the door doesn’t resist her. Rather, it begins wrapping itself around her body. Her face becomes visible – a beautiful woman what seems to be her early twenties. Vibrant crimson locks flow behind her face as she makes her way into the room. The door solidifies into armor on her body.

“That’s a neat trick,” you remark prior to doubling over and emptying your guts onto the floor.

“Follow me, my lord. We have no time to spare,” she beckons as she walks out of the room through the empty space where the door used to be.



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