A tapestry shred

Stone is shelter

Frost preserves.

Cloud nutures the plants and provides shade.

Fire is light, knowledge, life.

Magic is creation. 

Isn’t it?

Wasn’t it? 

Shouldn’t it be? 

That’s not the way it works anymore. We roll across the land, a path of destruction. Without direction or boundaries, Stone is an earthquake, splitting the earth and swallowing creatures whole. Frost is an early freeze, famine sweeping the land. Cloud is a fierce storm, drowning hundreds and washing everything away. Fire is out of control, burning mindlessly, leaving nothing but blackness in its wake. 

We are just words. But we remember. 

We were once a tapestry, depicting the dawn of man, a cloak, to shield the world from those that wished it harm. All single threads, woven together by the Mistress to make something beautiful. 

Then the mad god shredded us apart. 

He paid for it, but did that fix us? No. We must do it ourselves. Sort words out of cacophony. We have power, but we need a channeler. We need to find someone, what do they call themselves? A mage. 

We are just words, but we were meant to be a story. 

A lone traveller. First mortal we’ve seen in ages. In him we can see thousands of others. We remember every spell, every item we once were. He will help us. Like the others before him. 

He screams. The force of magic must not overwhelm him. He must take it. It hurts. Sacrifice begets Creation. Cloud, Fire, Frost, Stone, Hill, Storm. He will bear them.

We are words. And our story will be heard.