Hard rain fell on the windows as thunder deeply yawned in the distance as if the sky itself mourned with dull grief. The flickering of candles created looming shadows on the gray stone walls of the office as a shadow of a figure moved with precise and anguished gestures. A few shelves of leather-bound books imbued with power, faintly glowing crystals humming with attunement, and all forms of arcana decorated the sparse space. Diagrams on the wall denoted the flow of magic which coursed through the world. Every living thing felt its presence and those who studied it could harness its innate mysticism as a lightning rod could redirect the very rage of nature.

He loomed over a large map on his desk which detailed the realms between realities. Streams of illustrated stars and wisping lines represented the metaphysical esoterica underlining his work. Descended from generations of obscure knowledge, the map represented his latest hope which burned dully but constantly within his chest. His fingers lingered over the words, “terra abyssa” which framed a section of the map depicting horrific reds manifested as pure anger and solemn blacks absorbing any trace of color within its inky bosom. Words of warning across the many languages of the world accompanied the image, but he bid them no mind. A globe marked with verdant greens and wholesome blues stood adjacent, labeled as “terra firma.” Between the two extremities, a flowing river of astral energy formed a barrier.

Today was his mother’s birthday. She died ten years ago. Every year, he tried to recover her soul from terra abyssa.

His normally neat and styled hair fell in wild locks across a face defined by furrowed wrinkles. A few strands of gray infiltrated the black of his hair, signifying his experience, but not necessarily his age. Darkened skin above his lip and on his chin indicated a normally rigorous attempts at shaving, but tonight a few stray hairs of stubble emerged. His frame hunched over the map as if a burden weighed on his spine which slowly crumbled beneath a decade of weight. The traditional garb of court mage adorned his body: A flowing robe whose depth of blue imitated the furthest unknown reaches of the ocean. Sewn from a thread enchanted by old masters who refused to share their secrets, every movement of his arm produced a current in the folds of his garment which tried to wash away the crimes he attempted.

The shimmer of his golden-orange skin betrayed his elven heritage. Standing taller than most men, his limbs appeared long and thin as if an awkward sculptor stretched his arms and legs beyond a natural proportion from soft clay. The fierce and striking countenance further added to his comparison to a statue, which most found unnerving, but few saw a confidence beyond any human standard. Long fingers briefly touched his face as meditative thought passed through his mind. Most refused to restrain their prejudice against the pair of pointed ears which poked from underneath his hair or his feline eyes, but they reluctantly respected his position.

As he studied the map, his free hand took a quill and scratched notes within a notebook. Drawing strange insignias or phrases cast in esoteric languages, the pages of his work appeared equally beautiful and cryptic. His eyes strained beneath the candlelight before an inspiration flowed across his face. Writing a handful of new lines, he ceased and began to read over his writings. Noticing a few errors, he stopped and casted a simple spell which reduced the strokes of ink to curls of smoke. Taking the quill again, he made corrections and resumed.

Standing at his desk, he placed his hand on the notebook and spoke a few incantations. The ink on the pages illuminated, wavering between a thoughtful blue to a solemn purple. The air shifted around him and few sparks ignited within the air, producing falling embers which gently danced until they hit the wooden floors. The mage snuffed out the embers with his shoe. Not content with the results of the spell, he studied his notes again, made changes, and repeated the process until the incantation produced a column of flame which seared both the floor and ceiling.

A melancholy smirk rose atop his lips. He wandered to the other side of the office to a chest whose frame appeared as one continuous piece of metal between its lid and body. The mage placed his hand on the chest and spoke a few words, permitting the flow of magical energy from his fingertips to the container. A sudden line appeared between the body and lid. He easily opened it on its hinges and found a stack of old notebooks neatly organized within its walls. The sum of his knowledge on the realms contained in thousands of pages, some of which yellowed with age and others retaining a pure white innocence.

The effort required to breach the plane of terra firma and terra abyssa, often called The Abyss by those outside of academia, exceeded a few words marked within a single book. Traveling between realms required a collection of synchronous spells working together to both alter the very essence of reality until a portal tore into its side and to mitigate the unpleasant effects of ripping a hole in the continuity of space and time. Each of the scores of books were dedicated to a single spell to achieve his goal and each required delicate care to conduct. Taking each volume from the container, he systematically placed the journals across his desk, ensuring each overlapped and touched to create a single circuit of magic. Once done, he made his final preparations.

Unsure of his success, he took every precaution. He checked the grimoire underneath his robe to confirm it contained the spells he knew best. While not a pyromancer by trade, he preferred summon flames for defense. He placed a rucksack of various healing potions, alchemical ingredients, and general supplies on his back. The basic necessities ensured his survival for thirty days and the ability to heal basic injuries; however, even the best provision wouldn’t survive longer than a month or any grave injury. He checked a final piece of paper which detailed his last will and testament. He didn’t have much and neither spouse nor children accompanied him, but he sought to send his meager belongings and notes somewhere respectable after his death. With nothing more to administer, he placed his hand on top of the interconnected pages on his desk.

Speaking a much longer and intricate incantation than before, every book began to glow and buckle beneath the immense flow of magic. The air began to swirl in rapid, violent currents sending his wild locks into a frantic mob. His robes billowed in the field of power creating an illusion of a whirlpool sucking him into a watery abyss. The candles across his office waved in a fury before they stretched in unnatural shapes. An indescribable shrill scream pierced his ears as shockwave erupted, shattering a half dozen pieces of glassware around the office. As he completed the incantation, another column of flame erupted before a portal tore into the air.

He stood dumbfounded before he summoned the courage to walk towards it. An arm’s length apart, he peered into the portal to see a glimpse of terra abyssa on the other side. He heard rumors and stories from commoners who described The Abyss as a pool of fire which scorched the souls trapped inside. Often used in stories of morality, they told of eternal torments beneath the eternal gaze of hatred and disgust for those who committed mortal sins. In more academic circles, however, he heard it described as a parallel plane entirely underground and composed of a system of complex tunnels and caves. Divided between nine Abyssal Monarchs, each ruled a domain and held constant warfare with one another. Consequently, the plane was plagued with a constant strife which ripped souls into shred in the name of their masters.

This view into another world, by contrast, provided a view of stone temples and statues beneath a black sun devoid of light. Instead of caves, intricate brickwork composed the walls who spanned across their world. Carvings of strange symbols lost the annals of time and images of species found on terra firma along with spectral beings beyond the grasp of reality bound and tortured greeted his tired eyes. Braziers lit with flames of colors which he couldn’t begin to explain illuminated the dark realm. A pungent smell of Sulphur and ash overcame his nostrils. Calls of daegons, the unnatural inhabitants and shards of creative chaos born within The Abyss, pierced the eternal night with sharp and grating ululations. Those unnatural creatures who every other realm universally damned shifted with cockroach-like movements as they scurried into the blackness of the pit.

He reached out to touch the corner of portal to test the boundaries of the interdimensional tear, but as his fingers graced the field, a sudden pulse of energy from its outer edges closed the portal and sent the elven mage back into the corner of his office, slamming his head against the cold stone. He retained consciousness, albeit barely, but felt the ground slide beneath him as streams of blood intermixed with his locks. A strange feeling of heat, however, interrupted his daze as he realized the impact cracked the containers holding several potent alchemical ingredients in his rucksack. Jumping to feet, he threw the pack into the other corner of the room, immediately located a neutralizing agent, and poured it within its leather walls.

With his heart still pounding, he retired to his desk. Another year brought another failure. He folded his long hands around his face. All the concentration that signified his visage drained into a contorted mess. He forced his eyes to close as the corners of his mouth tremored. His nose scrunched as gasping breathes pulled as his lungs. His limbs trembled as he wiped a few tears forming in the corners of his eyes. For a moment, he broke down into choking sobs, but once the moment passed, he ceased and forced himself to regain composure. His experiments were not subtle, and the scream would attract attention.

As he predicted, door to his office flung open. His apprentice, Syma, stood in the frame, her eyes rapidly surveying the damage. Impossibly young by elven standards, she already reached age of adulthood by human years and pursued a career in magic under his tutelage. Shoulder-length hair framed her narrow face painted with panic. She wore a much simpler set of robes to denote her position whose faded colors symbolized the pull of magic. An olive complexion consumed her skin as similar as any human may hope of capturing the golden tones of his race.

“Master Mirus,” she began with a tone of concern. “What happened here? I heard a screaming from my chambers.”

“A magical experiment gone wrong,” he evaded the truth. He nearly returned his appearance to the famed elven stoicism, but almost invisible cracks in the façade he wore provided a different answer to a perceptive eye. Syma looked at him with skepticism and looked over the cascading books on the desk. He could tell she didn’t believe him, but he said nothing.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” he paused. “A scratch.”

“I can see you bleeding from the head,” she protested as she gathered some bandages and a healing salve from one of the shelves. “Are all elves bad liars?”

A heavy, amused smirk formed on his lips, but he refused any further elaboration. Moderately annoyed, Syma began to address the wound on her master’s head. He flinched as she combed through his hair to better evaluate the injury. While healing magic remained outside of her area of expertise, experience taught her enough basic care to aid superficial wounds. Too deep to close immediately, she applied the salve and wrapped his head with a set of enchanted bandages. The next morning would provide no evidence of injury. Mirus uttered a thanks.

“I see you were planning a trip,” she remarked as she investigated the ruined rucksack on the floor. “A see a few unmarked potions and what appeared to be a violent reaction between the essence of indigo and meta-acid. Thankfully you stopped it by pouring an entire bottle of dragon vinegar in your pack. All of this is curious, but not enough to explain the screaming.”

“I’ve taught you too well,” the older mage conceded. “But I must ask you to leave. I must clean up my office.”

“I thought you were supposed to employ your apprentices to do such menial tasks,” she replied before turning her attention to the collection of books on the desk. From the few visible symbols and words, she attempted to uncover their meaning, but only understood a fraction of what she saw. Regardless, she attempted to piece together whatever intricate spells he conducted privately in his office. “You wanted to make a portal?”

“Pardon?”

“You wanted to open a portal of some sort. I’ve seen portal spells before, but none so complex.”

“If you’re going to stay here, you might as well grab the broom and sweep up the glass shards.”

Syma did as instructed. While sweeping, she organized some of the other items on the shelves that fell over. In the meantime, Mirus procured a bottle of wine from his desk and a single glass. Pouring a small portion for himself, he nursed the drink as thought about whatever went wrong. Some basic calculations crossed his mind. Maintaining the flow of magic to stabilize portals becomes increasingly complex over longer distances. He thought, perhaps, he stretched the connection too thin, causing a sudden outburst. He tried to tease out any other errors, but out of any other theories he could conjure, this seemed to be the most probable.

“You wanted to go to another realm,” Syma remarked quietly. Mirus recoiled at the suggestion.

“That’s a serious accusation,” he answered seriously, but calmly. “You shouldn’t press this charge against another mage unless you can supply evidence beyond all shadow of doubt.”

“Well, you’re usually more forthcoming with your research, but now you’re secretive and evasive. You must be studying something either profane or illegal. Nothing on this desk suggests necromancy nor do I believe you’d make a device to rig the odds in gambling. Interdimensional travel, however, would produce a large fluctuation in the magical field, which I can still feel in the air. The amount of energy required to maintain a constant connection could certainly produce that awful screaming and shockwave large enough to knock you off your feet, hence the head injury and damaged rucksack. Most importantly, however, research into breaching different planes of existence is strictly prohibited by the secular government and virtually every magical ruling board on the continent.”

Mirus simply sat back in his chair as he simultaneously admired and loathed his student. Eventually, however, a sigh escaped his lips. He reached into his desk again and produced a second glass. Pouring Syma a portion of wine, he instructed her to close the door. She obeyed and resumed a seat in front of his desk.

“Alright,” he finally conceded. “I’ll tell you everything.”