Arcanum 101: Artifacts

The room went silent as a tomb when Draen floated to the front of the classroom. He gazed out at the students, something between annoyance and amusement etched on his ashen grey face. “Interesting,” he said quietly, “I would have thought the numbers would dwindle for my class, not grow.” Six months into his term as professor of Arcanum 101: Introduction to the Magical Arts, he had over a dozen students leave his class. He moved the one immolated by primal fire to the courtyard. Apparently it was distracting. Whether it was the scream, the crackling of the fire, or the stench of burning flesh he could not tell. Two actually dropped his class, one of which decided basket weaving was a better career choice. The other was currently walking back to shore, from the center of the ocean, having learned the hard way that archmages can hear their names being spoken, and home in on that conversation.

“I suppose my reputation excites you. That, or you’re too stubborn to quit. Both will get you killed.” Draen said at length. “Since you keep coming back, and I prefer to speak on the mysteries and power of magic, and not coddle you with sleight of hand, :as he said this he flexed his right hand, and metal sprouted and sheathe his hand, ending in inch long claws. On the back of the metal glove was a red gem that made the air shimmer, and those in the front row could feel the hear radiating off of it. It pulsed as if alive with flames licking the inside of the gem rising to the top. Another flick, and the glove and gem were gone. “I have your new lesson, which will lead to your midterm assignment.”

A groan rolled out from the back of the chamber. The room froze. Draen’s gaze landed, heavy as a gravestone. A quill snapped in one student’s grip. Another found sudden interest in the table of contents of a book he’d never opened. Someone else turned scarlet, sweat spreading dark across his robes as he glanced around for the guilty party.

Draen let the silence stretch, savoring it, before he spoke.
“Forget your scores. Survival is the only grade that matters. Pass or perish.

Draen spoke some words of power, and the room was bathed in a brilliant golden light. When it receeded, a beautiful spear lay on a dais. It was all metal, made of platinum or some other similar metal. It had two curved tines at the end, and they were jagged and sharp. Golden runes danced on it surface. “This is Wyvernbane,” he said simply. “It is an artifact of a forgotten age. Its purpose is to kill dragons.”

“Before I burden you with your assignment, I must first explain artifacts. Though frankly, if you don’t already grasp their nature, your odds of survival are slimmer than I thought.” His gaze drifted lazily across the chamber, watching quills hover above parchment like trembling daggers.

“Since your attention determines your survivability, let’s make it interesting. The student who performs best will accompany me to Lorr.” A pause. Every head lifted. Every breath held.

Draen smirked. “Look at that. Rapt attention.”

“Artifacts are magic made manifest.” Not a sound was heard as Draen spoke. “Once, only Titans and the gods wielded the power to create artifacts. The could reach up, take a piece of the either and their will would be made manifest. Then came the mortals. They mastered magic with such fervor it gave the goddess of magic pause. They created and expanded magical lore in the few centuries they had access to magic, than the Titans, the gods, and even the dragons did in their entire existence.”

Draen pulled a ring off of the same slender finger – that was covered by the platinum claw – and held it up for the class. It was golden, and rather than being made of a single band, it was crafted of a dozen individual gold strands woven together into a spiral to form the circlet. At certain points along each strand was a small but noticeable gem. The gems were set in the same spiral pattern as the band.

“This is a ring of spell storing,” Draen began, “You may go your entire existence without ever seeing one, and this is considered one of the most potent devices in a spellcaster’s repertoire.” He spoke a word, and despite the ring not being on his finger, one of the gems glowed. There was a green flash, and the stench of brimstone filled the air. Crouched on the podium in the front of the class was a horrid looking creature. It appeared to be a diminutive goblin, if you stretched out its limbs impossibly. Instead of a mouth it sported a long jagged beak. No eyes were evident anywhere. Draen crouched and spoke in a language the creature understood. It immediately stood up, and twisted diaphanous wings peeled out of its back. It hovered in the air, barely two feet from it’s bald head to it’s jagged toes, then moved slowly to sit on the desk of the now petrified student closest to it.

“As you can see, I used a summon spell.” Draen continued as if all this was a daily occurrence. “11 spells remain on the ring, and I am free to replace the spell I expended to summon the mephit.” He extended his hand and the ring flew back to its master. “Potent and powerful though this relic is, it was crafted by a mortal. It can be undone by a mortal. Or anyone higher of magical might. Not likely any of you. Magical items, weapons and armor are crafted using existing spells and materials of the highest quality. Yet the spells that imbue the item are children’s baubles than those used to craft an artifact.

“The difference in power is staggering. It would be akin to you all deciding my methods were too extreme, and gathering to give me some much-needed justice. You may even believe numbers would provide an advantage.” Draen let the silence stretch, eyes sweeping the room. “It would not stop me from flaying the meat from your bones. I may even have to use magic.

All the air left the room. The terrified student’s head struck the desk with a hollow crack, narrowly missing the mephit, where he remained slumped, an orb rolling from his nerveless hand. It tinkled across the floor, the delicate sound loud as a scream in the silence. Draen’s eyes glowed briefly as he regarded it.

“Well, well, well,” he chuckled, lips curling into a half-smile. “I do love surprises.” With a flick of his fingers, the orb lifted from the floor and slipped neatly into the student’s pocket.

The mephit sniffed at the boy, claws scraping fabric, then scuttled up his back to perch between his shoulders. Its blind head swiveled from side to side, sniffing with grotesque satisfaction, before it took wing again — flitting to another desk, the hunt not yet done.

“Artifacts are created by using the Aether itself.” Draen paused, eyes sweeping the room with disdain. “If I have to explain how a spellcaster casts magic, then please leave. The world could use more basket weavers.”

No one moved. The mephit buzzed lazily over the rows of desks, wings rasping like knives.

“To craft the ring,” Draen continued, holding it aloft once more, “I used the highest quality materials, while infusing the metal and the gems with my own magic.” He drifted toward the dais, cloak whispering across the stone floor. His hand hovered inches from the spear resting there. His voice dropped into something near reverence.

“To craft Wyvernbane, a wizard—or more likely, a conclave of them—channeled the Aether itself. They did not draw from it as you draw breath. They seized it, shaped it, and forced it to remain.” His fingers curled slightly, as though gripping some invisible throat. “Failure usually means death. Instant. Agonizing. Absolute.”

He let the silence stretch, eyes lingering on each pale face before him.

“Your aptitude with magic merely strengthens your connection to the Aether, like children splashing in a stream. The gods, however…” Draen smiled thinly. “The gods are the river.”

The mephit had flitted over to the desk in the back corner. The armpit sweat stained was mercifully concealed somewhat by the profuse sweating he’d been doing since the mephit appeared. It faced him. Sniffing. Something like a purr escaped its beak. White knuckles gripped the desk. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped. Breathing came in short rasps. The few students looking in his direction turned their heads when Draen began again.

“Now this brings us to our midterm,” Draen said with a grin. “Wyvernbane was forged by a Ma’Daran archmage, when he and his ilk overthrew their former master, a sun dragon of considerable power. If you look closely, you will find that the half is not a golden rod, but a single scale, painstakingly folded over and over. The tines are similarly crafted from the sun dragon’s corpse. For the record, the haft isn’t hollow, the scale was fitted over a cylinder carved from a spinal bone of a fire dragon of similar power. It was then bathed in the blood of every single dragon that existed in those days, some that are tragically no longer around. The souls of those two dragons, if not all the dragons used in its creation reside in this weapon. Their power allows a wielder to greatly harm and potentially kill a dragon, while giving the wielder protection from the dragon’s abilities.

As an aside, a lesser method was used later to create Aeruus’s vaunted order of Dragonslayers, the Order of Ash and Scale. To say the goddess of magic was displeased with its creation is an understatement. The artifact and the order. For those that fail to make the connection, remember that in terms of power, Titans out rank gods. And dragons are direct descendants of the Titans. “

“Your task is to figure out how to undo the potent magic that powers Wyvernbane. How to break the river of magic within it. How to overcome the souls that reside in it.” Draen turned his back on the students. “For one cannot consider themselves great if they are never challenged. How great are you if you only chose the easy path.” He turned slowly in midair, arms clasped behind him. His gazed fixed on the student in the back room.

“Bonus question,” he asked quietly, “What is the most basic requirement for dealing with an infernal?”

A dwarf female raised her hand. Draen nodded in her direction, never taking his eyes off the student in the back. “Payment for services rendered,” she answered, voice husky and loud in the silence.

“Correct.” He floated closer to the back. “Infernals are transactional by nature. One cannot ask an infernal to do anything. Well, typical summoners cannot.” He looked at the mephit. “Mephits are simple creatures. Their most amazing skill is they can literally smell fear and guilt. So when I asked our friend to sniff out one of your peers who is clearly so skilled that the thought of an exam, a challenge was beneath him, he jumped at the chance.”

The revelation restored the voice in the panic-stricken student. “B-b-but you said…” he stammered, “Y-y-you d-didn’t pay him nothing! We saw, we all saw!” The mephit was standing now, his nails extending impossibly long, drool spilling from its beak.

Draen opened his mouth to speak, but the gravelly voice cut him off. “He also said, typical summoners had to bargain.” Draen turned to face the dwarf. She flinched slightly under his gaze, but she looked him straight in the eye.
“Rapt attention indeed.”

Draen held his gaze for a long moment before the dwarf looked away, pale face blushing. “I told him if he could beat the archmage in training, he could feast.”

The student’s protest was lost in a horrible wet sound as the mephit’s beak tore into the tender sweat soaked throat.

Draen floated towards the exit, the only sound was the pitiful gurgling echoing off the walls.