The Sad Tale of Sage Flamos of the Lake

The door flies open, a figure flashes through, slamming the door of the inn behind him and releasing a loud sigh of relief. A few of the regulars glance up from their tables at the noise but seeing no threat they resume their stories and games. Gasping for breath and wide eyed the man walks on shaky legs towards an empty stool at the bar and gestures agitatedly for my attention.

Many of my friends left our quiet lakeside town near the once they came of age. They took the long road to the Crossroads and searched for their fortune in the wizard cities or enlisted and trained to be a warrior in the Arena or the Tower. They mocked and teased my choice to remain here in Dockside and take over after Old Steed passed on. They said all my days would be the same, but they would see the world and its riches. Sure, the days at times become repetitive, but I’ve always enjoyed running the Den for these unexpected visitors. You never know who or what may enter Dockside Den and while I may not have seen all the Runiverse myself we have tales of our own. Curious what has put this man in such a state I put on my best friendly bartender face and walk over as he continues to flap his hands wildly panting to catch his breath.

“Your Runes –“he blurts out and I can see he is terrified.

“Well-met stranger. I am Warrior #10296” I say to him softly as he looks spooked enough already. “I don’t recognize you, must not be from around here,” as he continues stammering for words.

“naaa-naaa, naa-im, nah im not, jujuju-juust came along the trails by the lake, I’m Warrior #8832” <he freezes all motion stares me hard in the eyes> “ Your Runes, keeper! I saw them on the door. Are the wards strong? Do we have sanctuary from the devils that haunt those woods? !”

His eyes lose focus and his breath quickens.

“faa-faa-flaming head….fire and pain. Such anguish it took me to my knees and when I looked up I saw a skull wrapped in flame. A charred and roasting skull, I, I, I was sure I was done for.”

“Oh that’s right its almost Hallows Eve.” I think aloud and seeing the newcomer’s continued exasperation, “Yes I put the runes on the door myself, they will keep all safe within. Fear not we are secure, but Flamos wont bring you any harm, despite the intensity of his gaze, although Ci-.”

“FLAMOS!?” he shouts. At this the other patrons again pause their activities, and the first few rise from their tables.

As I see the crowd approach, I know I’ll have to share the full story to satisfy my patrons, for the story of Wizard #9530 is one of the local favorites during harvest time and it had been a full year since its last telling.

“That was just Flamos,” I say pouring a mug of my stoutest ale and sitting it before the man, “…big bright flaming head, eyes like heated obsidian coals?”

“You…you know of it,” he stammers, “I thought I was a goner for sure. The flickering light illuminated scarred and singed flesh his robe held together with a series of large buckles and straps. However, as the grotesque form neared it seemed to hear a call from the distance. Dismissing me immediately it turned away from the trail walking off into the night. The hill he approached had a sickly glow of its own-” Noticing the mug in front of him he pauses to take a deep swig. The blend of herbs I dropped in his brew began to calm him immediately, always good to know a few simple tricks for calming people down, and by the time the mug was placed back on the bar the creases of worry lifted from his brow.

Opening my arms wide I gesture for the crowd to come closer, take a deep breath and begin. “Sage Flamos wanders around the lake for several weeks every year during the harvest. When the anniversary of her death nears the stars properly align both above and below and she crosses the veil of death.”

“She?” the man says, “I’m certain I heard a woman’s voice calling out, but it sounded hollow and twisted as though carried on a swift wind. Light! Are you telling me it was from the Underworld?”

“Oh you heard her as well! She would have just arrived” I say now truly surprised. “Holy Arcanist man! You are lucky to be here with us. Soul #9755 is usually in a very foul mood the first day of her summoning. If Flamos is unable to find her straight away to smooth her voyage she often sets part of the forest ablaze with her fire staff before she becomes fully in control of herself.”

“Ah, but to understand you must know the story” and so I begin again…

The tragic story of Flamos begins in a small log cottage not far from where we sit today. An unusually powerful healer he was respected and treasured by the town. A kind-hearted scholar he is credited for curing at least 2 rounds of flux and for summoning sufficient food to stave off starvation in the famine after the failing of the gerkin crop. Known for being a recluse and living alone, it was a great surprise to all when a power more binding than his own potions and spells arrived in town and shifted his life forever.

Her name was Wizard #9755 and the two became inseparable. A man who had been more fabled hermit than town regular suddenly moved into the old house by the square and quickly became a pillar of the community. Known to always help the locals regardless of their ability to pay. His pet monkey became a common site at all feast days and town councils. Under his guidance and aid the town prospered and flourished. This harvest season they were joyous to have another reason to celebrate.

Circe’s belly was round and the child was expected any time. Preparations were underway around town to welcome the son of the sage and for the annual harvest festival. It was during these hectic weeks the dreams came to Sage. A beautiful and smokeless fire burned surrounded by flowers, roots, and leaves. Glowing runes swirled among the tokens of nature. The sage researched the strange flame and blend of items and to his shock recognized it as the completed component list to summon The Sacred Flame. To his knowledge the crafting of it had been lost to time all that remained was a partial page copied from a damaged scroll found in wizard cities around the Runiverse.

No one had summoned The Flame in living memory. It was rumored to be an incredibly powerful font of magic and the thought of it burrowed its way deep into the thoughts of Sage. To think with such a powerful source how well he could protect his child. The power of the spell of protection would be so great nothing could ever bring it harm. He had nightly dreams of the eternal flame. As the time of birth neared, he could no longer resist the call of The Flame. Convinced he could use the power to fuel a powerful blessing he does as parents have done since the dawn of humanity and sought out what he hoped would bring health and protection to his first born.

While with child Sage rarely left Circe’s side so the town was surprised when he hurriedly asked someone to watch over his home while he attended to something important. When pressed he only revealed he must journey deep into the forest to gather some exotic herbs he knew to grow there and would return before the child was born. A day and a night passed and the town began grew anxious. The midwife knew the child would be coming any day, but on the third day Sage returned jubilant, if a bit dirty.

A bundle of tree cuttings and odd flowers strewn over his shoulder he entered the house humming to himself. Within moments of entering the hut the chimney puffed out large clouds of vibrantly colored smoke. The trimmings he placed into the hearth fed the smoke and a hearty fire crackled happily. The thick smoke twisted into various runes as it rose from the chimney a colorful thread against the darkly clouded skies of autumn. Light spilled from the homes windows and doors Sage carefully drew and cast the remaining runes around the flame. He recited the spell, activating each rune and tending the fire with additions of roots and twigs. The words eventually transitioned into a wordless chant, the fragrant and vibrant smoke lifting out of the cottage seeming to make a dome around the small town.

The town people were preparing to welcome their newest member and celebrate the harvest. The town was filled with strings of flowers and drying herbs. The plants fragrance blending with the baking sweetbreads and roasting meats for the weeks celebrations. Cries of labor pains split the chill air that evening and everyone knew it would soon be time to come together and celebrate the continuation of the town’s magical lineage. A few hours to finish preparations until finally, hearing the cries of the newborn all glanced towards the house in anticipation of the opening of the door.

It is customary in Dockside for the new father to open the door and holding it out for the town to see call the name of the child out to welcome them to the world. In this moment all come together to give their will to a blessing for the child. As the door opened the child seemed to glow with the powerful blessing bestowed by the magical flame. The town lent their collective wills, and the child became so bright as the blessing of protection took effect they had to avert their eyes. Awestruck they began to cheer in wonder blinking away the image of a glowing infant. While still blinded to the night after the burst of light no one noticed when the smoke spilling out of the chimney shifted to a deep obsidian and began to sink back to earth and cloud above the town square.

The first to notice pointed and called out in alarm, but the smoke rapidly crashed to the ground, obscuring visibility, and forcing the everyone to cough and gag. The night was filled with devilish laughter and those closest to the open door saw a group of implings step out of the smoke and leap onto the Sage clawing for his throat. Sage was seen falling back inside the home still holding his infant before the smoke thickened and everything became darkness.

Sounds of struggle followed with the breaking of glass, the bang of metal and cries of anguish. The night is split by the scream of Circe and another flash of magic. Darkness and silence deepen until down the road away from the home the crying of a child is heard trailing off in the distance and the smoke begins to clear. People quickly rush to the door and are knocked aside as Sage charges out of the house. His eyes wild with rage he pulls to a stop on his porch holding a brilliantly bright ball of flame, an unintelligible roar coming from his throat. The light brightly illuminated Sage’s face contorted in fury.

Covered in blood and with his robe singed, scored, and smoking he raises his staff high into the air and shouts his rage at the fleeing imp. Lost to his passions, his anger, and his terror he taps into the most powerful magic available to him. The Sacred Flame. Controllable and pure as a blessing it is tainted now called on by his anger and hate. The bright colors darken, a black streak weaving into the light as the flame grows and twists into something else entirely. He lifts the flame calling its magic. The vibrant colors of the flame bubble off as a sickly black oily substance splattering the walls and Sage as a geyser of flame shoots forth. The anger of the kidnapping having snapped something deep inside of Sage he is headless of the sickly change to the flame and continues to pour all his strength into the flame gathering its strength to attack.

Lifting his hand he funnels all his hate and anger into the magic and unleashes a furious torrent of flame. The cloud of fire and destruction hurtles towards the imp, but the distance is too great and his mastery of the flame too poor. Lit by the burst of light the imp is seen one last time topping the hill clutching the glowing babe to its chest and quickly dropping down the other side.

The magical flame having met the limit of its reach does not dissipate, but instead streaks back to its source. Drawn back its origin and fed by the destructive rage that called it forth, the fire crashes over the home engulfing Sage and setting alight the dark oily substance covering him and everything around. Flames flare high as the structure burns Sage dashes into the home finally remembering his partner. He returns with Circe who is covered in soot and motionless, but does not appear badly burned. Stumbling out of the flames still engulphed in fire Sage steps into the street stumbling as he sets his wife down.

His protective wards had contained most of the inferno, but now he can feel the heat of the flames build as his protections to fade. Pain springs everywhere and his knees buckle collapsing his exhausted body to the street. The black oily substance coating his clothing now bursts fully into flames uninhibited by the wards. Loosing his hold on consciousness with the Fire still burning around him he can feel his life force fading as The Sacred Flame pulses ominously in his hand calling to him to use its power. Even as he burns the power of the flame sustains him. He watches in horror as his flesh begins to burn and he smells the pungent stink of his immolated body. Yet he is unable to let go of the flame. Too weak to move, but unable to die due to the power of the Sacred Flame clutched tightly in his hand he enters what feels to be an eternity of agony.

It is through a lens of fire that Sage sees Circe cough, then sit up and jerk when she sees his burning form beside her. Crawling to his side she grabs her staff and begins a simple cantrips to extinguish fire. Used commonly for cooling a hearth or stopping a quick cooking fire the true nature of the spell is not understood by most outside the wizard circle. All magic must function in an equilibrium and to extinguish a fire one must remove its energy and send it elsewhere. With horror Sage realizes Circe is trying to put him out by drawing the energy to herself! While she would barely notice the added heat from the flames on his clothing and flesh the Sacred Flame was a nearly infinite source! He must contain it.

His brain fogged by exhaustion and pain Sage attempts to activate The Flame once more to keep him alive, to give him strength. Never mind that it is now tainted by darkness, or that he is covered in flames, the risk to Circe is too great! A glow of pure Light begins to form around Sage’s face in the same moment Circe finishes her casting. In that moment Sage becomes Flamos. For the staff of Circe did pull away the flames from his clothing and body, but the protective power of The Flame overpowers the simple charm and prevents the flames to be drawn from about his head. Flamos sees not only the flames, but the sickly darkness drawn out in a line to the staff held forward by Circe and though his head remains shrouded in flame he can feel his vitality return by the healing power of the ancient flame.

Hope wells up in his chest as he realizes somehow, he is going to survive this. He will track down their child and punish the imps responsible the protective charm should still hold. He will rebuild the town and using the power of the Flame surely, he can fix all this and more!

As the last narrow strip of black flaming ichor is drawn off Flamos and into the Staff held by Circe the magic of the Flame flashes over Flamos sustaining his life, but leaving his body a pitted and scarred mess of burns. The casting complete the flame does not return to his hand but instead streaks like an arrow after the black ichor. It strikes Circle full in the chest and her very form becomes fire. The heat melts a circle in the ground and where once Circe stood there is only the faint image of a horned phantasm. The magic of the flame consumes her completely twisting her soul into this Circe, who was once of Dockside is now of Nothing.

Wizard #9530 left the town and never regained his sanity nor has he ever extinguished the flames that encircle his head. Though he has never caused any harm, he will speak of nothing but his son and wanders the forest day after day in search of him. Each year Soul #9755 crosses the veil to find him, and they reunite to mourn their loss and share their pain. Together they continue the fruitless search of the forest for the imps long gone with their lost son.

“And that,” I finish feeling the sadness of the tale deep in my chest, “ is why some things of the ancient world are better left forgotten”

Hearing the familiar closing remark the Den regulars raise their glasses and in unison respond, “ Things lost are never forgotten” and drink deeply from their mugs, turning back to their tables and abandoned games.

Entered by: 0xe999…719B and preserved on chain (see transaction)