George opened his eyes, wincing as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the cave. For a moment, he lay frozen, hoping when he finally fully opened his eyes, he'd be in bed at home and the entire ordeal a wild hallucination. But as he sat up slowly, surveying where he was, disappointment crept in. The rocky walls of the cave swirled about him, proving this strange, dreamlike world was real.
Sighing, George kicked his legs over the level rock bed, the soft wool blankets slipping off him as he stood up. His body ached slightly from the previous day's adventure, and he absently rubbed his arms as he walked toward the mouth of the cave. Emerging outside his small room, the damp, cold air greeted him. He was observing beings and animals, the kind he had previously seen, scurrying around, all headed in the direction of the cave exit.
His interest was aroused as he observed some of the creatures with big, ornate chests. The chests appeared old, crafted from black wood and secured with metal, their surfaces adorned with curious runes and symbols that glowed dimly with a soft light. George couldn't help but be curious about what they contained. Without further ado, he followed the group, keeping a little distance behind so as not to call attention to himself.
As they emerged from the cave, George noticed that they were heading in a completely different direction than where he had taken Mia the previous night. The terrain shifted from rocky, outcropped land to open land, the trees thinning until they reached the crest of an enormous, open field. The meadow was green, the grass dark green and nearly fantastically so, the wildflowers tiny and spread out over the meadow. The whole place seemed to have been arranged for something grand—there was a measured arrangement to it, like waiting for this time.
The creatures that were carrying the chests stopped in the middle of the meadow, carefully placing them on the earth. George froze, awed, as the atmosphere became charged with power. From the crowd, a tall elf stepped forward. The elf was young by his kind, his face angular and sharp, eyes that twinkled with wisdom. His silver hair cascaded down the back of his cloak, his pointed ears protruding slightly under his black cloak. His movements were fluid, catching the eye as he spread his arms and started to chant in an unfamiliar tongue.
Air around them appeared to vibrate as the elf spoke the spell, his voice low and singing but with a underlying command. Long-fingered hands swept over their chests, and then he spoke, "Ex arca-resurgite, forma plena!" The words hummed across the clearing, with its intensity felt. Meaning, literally, "Rise out of the chest, take up your full shape!"
As the words came to rest on the air, the chests began to groan and creak as though responding to some ancient call. George watched, amazed, as their lids opened slowly, not by any touch of their bodies, but as though some force beyond human eyes had desired them open. Little, mysterious objects, from within them, began to rise up, defying gravity.
His wonder grew as the objects—miniature cottages, huts, and even small wooden tents—whirled up in the air, emitting a mystical light. They began unfolding and expanding one by one, growing larger and larger with every revolution. Wooden supports stretched and fitted themselves together independently, roofs unfurled like opening flowers, and chimneys sprang up from cottages like enspelled vines.
The meadow was over in a few minutes. There was a quaint village that now lay in place of nothing but grass and wildflowers, mere seconds earlier. Quaint huts adjoined rustic cottages, the ornate wood and stone buildings containing secrets from the past. The tents rippled gently with the wind, their materials permeated by threads of silver and gold that shimmered like starlight trapped. One immense tent, shining as if constructed from moonlight, was placed apart from the others, its imperial height commanding attention.
George was stunned, his staring eyes reflecting the wizardry transformation. This was no mere sorcery; this was the work of a master of the mystical arts, one who could fashion the impossible into reality with mere words. "Incredible," he breathed, his voice nearly drowned out by the hum of their residual enchantment.
George gazed at him, utterly transfixed. He had never seen anything even remotely similar. The magic was so smooth, so natural, that he could barely wrap his head around it. He felt the air around him vibrating with power, and knew once again that this world—this strange and magical world—was light years more advanced than anything he might have imagined.
Then Minerva emerged and stood by George. He turned around and bowed his head respectfully. Minerva nodded at it, standing by his side as they gazed out upon the new village that had manifested.
George couldn't help but be amazed. "It's incredible, how all of this just. materialized. Like magic."
Minerva smiled kindly, but a touch of sorrow was in her eyes. "Yes. But there is far more to this world than magic. This village, though glorious, is only one of several. Clans like this are scattered across AlbëToryl, out of sight but connected to the very lifeblood of this world."
His curiosity was piqued, George asked, "So, what really happened here?"
Minerva took a deep breath, her expression growing stern. "Many ages ago, AlbëToryl was a beautiful and wondrous land. It was ruled by the Eternals, or the Apex. They were men and women of immeasurable power, brought to life to ensure the equilibrium of this planet. Trevor was one of them. He had once been a guardian, one of the most powerful and revered. AlbëToryl had been grand back then—spacious plains extending into the distance, clear rivers that shone like the heavens, old forests teeming with wild creatures as well as magic ones. Magic and nature existed side by side in a land like this."
While Minerva spoke, George was able to envision this utopia—a world untouched by the evil that now threatened.
"But power is a dangerous thing," Minerva continued, her tone softening. "Trevor was not always what he is now. He was one of those who defended this planet. But he wanted more. He wanted greater power than the Eternals, something that was forbidden to him. He found a way of tapping into the power of night, an evil energy which grants power at the cost of destruction. He is said to have created an army of shadow wolves—creatures born of his own matter, with hides as black as the void, their eyes with the same ambition for power as he had."
George listened, the seriousness of this revelation sinking in.
Minerva's voice broke. "The more they hurt, the stronger Trevor became. His shadow wolves attacked by night, burning villages, killing men, and spreading fear. The more souls they consumed, the stronger their master's powers became. No one could withstand them, not even the Eternals. Trevor had become too strong for them to dominate."
George looked at her, his heart heavy. "So everybody had to hide?"
"Yes," Minerva answered, streaming through a tear in her eye. "The AlbëToryl folk could no longer live openly under the stars. They hid in caves, avoiding the shadow wolves that roamed the earth at night. Only during the day, when Trevor's monsters were at their weakest, could they go out."
There was a silence, and George was filled with pity for these people—magic beings who had been forced out of the beauty of their world.
Minerva pushed him gently and ordered, "Look up."
George obeyed her instructions, and he gasped open-mouthed when he saw the young griffin flying in pretty circles through the air. The beast swooped down, then settled on strong wings onto the shoulder of its master. George gasped once more, the wide smile curving across his face.
"Gosh. gosh, it's. oh my," stuttered George, too thrilled even to talk.
Minerva smiled warmly. "This griffin has chosen you, George. Cherish it as your own existence. It will be loyal to you all the days of your life, and in its time, it will guide you through the trials before you."
While Minerva spoke, George was already engrossed in the joy of playing with the griffin, the creature nuzzling him in return. They were becoming fast friends, and Minerva smiled gently, aware that the young griffin would be a good friend to have on the road ahead.
George, still under the spell of the magical village, played contentedly with the young griffin perched on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of Gryff's feathers against his skin, and every gentle flap of the griffin's wings sent a thrill through him. "I think I'll name him Gryff! " George exclaimed, grinning widely. The name felt just right, embodying the creature's spirit and strength.
Gryff chirped excitedly, flapping his wings as if responding to the name with enthusiasm.
By his side, wise and stately elder Minerva smiled gently, her calm presence a counterpoint to George's effervescence. She watched him play, her eyes bright with admiration. "A good name for a bold friend," she remarked, her voice singing.
It was then that Mia, the beautiful and strong deer, trotted toward them with gentle impressions of her hooves in the rich soil. Her peaceful being was a soothing to the spirit, and George found himself drawn to her as she approached.
Mia, sensing the contagious laughter that filled the air, spoke to Minerva in a voice infused with a sense of urgency. "Have you told him yet?
George, curious and a little nervous, looked at them, his smile diminishing slightly. "Told me what?" he asked, his heart beating a little faster.
Minerva took a deep breath, her expression transforming into one of seriousness. She placed a hand on the shoulder of George, her pressure steady but soothing. "There is someone that you must be introduced to—a sorcerer possessing enormous knowledge about AlbëToryl. He is knowledgeable in the world's secrets as well as how the universe is built. Whoever can guide you is him.".
George's eyes grew wide with a rush of eagerness that welled inside him. "Can we leave now?" he asked, his heart racing with anticipation. The idea of seeing someone in command of this mystical world created waves of excitement inside him.
But Minerva smiled graciously and shook her head. Her eyes were wise. "Not yet, dear one. The road to him is long, and we have to prepare ourselves strong enough for the road. For now, you go slow and replenish yourself, eat some food, and look around the beautiful place. There is still much to learn."
Two elven maidens whose laughter was music-like appeared as if by chance, their gold and emerald tunics streaming as if the forest itself was alive. Minerva addressed them with a smiling face. "Take George to the lake closest to you. Have him bathe, eat, and socialize with your people. Make him welcome."
The elven youngsters nodded eagerly, their eyes sparkling with excitement as they waved George to follow them. He was in a mixture of awe and fear, but the chance to explore further into this magical world was too compelling to resist. While the elves continued walking towards the lake, George was in awe of the rainbow-hued surroundings. The path was lined with wildflowers, their hues vibrant and captivating, and the air with the heady scent of blooming jasmine. The trees loomed above them, giant, their leaves whispering secrets to each other in the gentle breeze.
As they approached the lake, he noticed the water glinting like a mirror under the sun's golden radiance, dotted with the reflections of puffy white clouds.
By the time George had reached the lake, he stood mesmerized in front of it. The lake shimmered in specks of light, the water seeming like a sea full of magic. Pixies zigzagged through, their long hair-like wings glowing in sunlight, leaving pathways of iridescent colors. George's lips curled into a smile, and he seemed as if he entered a world that was a fantasy.
The elves made him bathe, and he felt a rush of shyness at first, but warmth soon overwhelmed it. He plunged into the fresh, cool water, the sensation invigorating. The pixies capered around him, their laughter being like the clinking of tiny bells, and George laughed, too, with the moment of joy washing him over completely.
Once he had bathed, the elves dressed him in clothes symbolic of AlbëToryl—a tunic made from smooth, natural fabrics that flowed elegantly across him. The fabric had exquisite designs that resembled old runes, a testament to the craftsmanship of this enchanted place. He felt as though he was in one of his favorite fairy tales.
Next, the elves took him to the home of their family, a charming wooden cottage deep in the center of the woods. It seemed to have grown organically from the earth itself, with walls covered in flowering vines and a roof so perfectly integrated into the leaves above. The heat within was tangible, filled with the aromas of freshly baked bread and overripe fruits.
George was served a great meal, shared with laughter and giggles. He was part of the group as he sat among the young elves, who were all eager to listen to him. They played games and told stories about their experiences, every second creating a stronger bond among them.
As the sun began to paint the sky with hues of purple and orange, the enchanting process of the village's vanishing began again. The tents, wooden homes, and other structures slowly retreated into the magical chests, their forms vanishing as if they were illusions. The elves stepped back in harmony, their movements smooth and practiced, knowing that it was time to retreat to the safety of the caves for the night.
The moment he was inside the cave, George felt the tranquility wrap itself around him. He walked into his room, where the stone bed strewn with soft sheep wool awaited him. Gryff curled up beside him, a comforting presence beneath the dim light. George stretched out back, his eyes fixed on the magic ceiling, where stars twinkled as vividly as in the sky outside.
His mind was a whirl of thoughts—questions about the sorcerer, the adventures that lay ahead, and the mysteries of AlbëToryl. But underlying all that, a calm descended in his heart. He was beginning to understand that this magical world might be home for him. No dread of returning home existed only thoughts of the path that lay before him.