The presence of magic

[Aeron Ktrenna]

The threads of magic are an intricate weave; one cannot touch a line that others gifted with the same sight do not feel the touch. True enough, magics vary in schools of thought, theories, and practice. Some are far better known than others, some are far more deadly than the average mage or layman can begin to understand.

Aeron had felt it, a sensation not unlike the leg of a spider testing the strength of a strand, at first. She was often seen gazing out her windows, or standing in the withered gardens surrounding her estate, always her eyes directed to the North. There were consequences, a price for the destruction she had wrought back at Basilisk Keep. She had brought down the walls of stone, set loose power with nothing to keep it cleansed, balanced, the flow steady. For those stones had not only served as walls, they were all part of the intricate design used to cleanse the lines in the entire area. Now, nothing served to balance, and worse still, there was an active gate not far off.

And yet, she felt that disturbing sensation growing, felt the power as it hummed and snapped in the air. She had gone so far as to check upon the innocent looking arch, the one in the middle of a crumbling old wall. There were no footprints nearby, the ground was undisturbed, and no one had been here. Whatever she felt, it was not coming from the small gate she had built.

Unmindful of the cold, Aeron stood outside in the gathering darkness, faint lines of concern etched across her brow. She had no choice, the keep had to be destroyed, leaving the sealed vaults buried beneath tons of rubble. The power sealed away in those vaults was enough to destroy a small kingdom, or several small kingdoms. Inwardly Aeron had come to realize how foolish she had been to encourage the magi to create such wonders. Such deadly, terrible wonders.
It was and had been her hope, no one would go near the ruined keep, so very far away from this land. No one there, surely, for the ruins of the stone bastion lay in a forbidding and dangerous, wild range of mountains, far removed from everything and everyone else. It was several days ride to the largest city from the keep; the reason a main, permanent gate had been constructed deep in the bowels of stone.

Now, someone else had come to this land, someone else with the ability to not only see the lines and pools of power, the intricate weave of magic, but with the ability to wield it as well. To her knowledge, none in this land had such ability, save for her own. And Aeron’s was limited now, her studies long since abandoned in pursuit of the sword. Building the small gate had been quite the effort; she used only enough magic to sustain minor things about her estate. Small efforts, such as the kind required to keep others from reading her thoughts, from sensing her age, what was beneath the masque so carefully worn.
Her concern came from knowledge, the awareness the lines to the North had been tainted by blood. Blood magic. Blood in the lines. She knew too well what consequences could come of that. Some years back, an entire vale had been destroyed, she had lost some friends, and the community of magic had lost a precious commodity in that betrayal; hundreds of adepts and others of various skill levels of healing and magic had died.

Thus, Aeron did the only thing she could; she took up riding the perimeter, the far northern boundaries of her estate, daily. Searching, seeking, watching for the thing she feared the most.
The abominations of nature, creatures warped by magic and drawn to follow the lines, like moths to the flame.
She did not fear demons; she did not fear vampires, the swords of men, or the invasions of foreign armies. The possible consequences of her actions were far more terrifying than a horde of demons, than days without sunlight.
Such warped creatures cared little if one was good or evil; they maimed, killed and destroyed without prejudice. Acid flowed in their veins, and the wounds they inflicted were slow to heal, if at all. They traveled alone or worse, hunted in packs, leaving behind barren wastelands, empty and devoid of life.

Guilt drove her out into the cold no less than twice a day, more consuming than any ambition could ever have possibly been.