It was in a narrow hall when magic was discovered. The kind that people refer to as dark, dank, and often smelling of putrid smokes and sickly sweet scents. It also put one in mind of a cellar, because it was one. But that was the thing about pageantry and mysticism, they had to go hand in hand. You really couldn’t have one without the other. Ordinarily a person wouldn’t concern themselves with the fabric the curtains were made of, but in the event of a visit from prospective clients, a man find himself considering if the color suited the room. 

Its why the room filled with thick smoke from incense and poultices, why the supports of the house were decorated in dark cloth, why skulls decorated the room, and why there was a body lying in the middle of the floor. For show, for effect. It was always, always just smoke and mirrors. People wanted to believe that magic was real, that if they said the words and made a sacrifice, they might taste a glimpse at a better life. It didn’t matter that the sacrifice might be an unsuspecting tourist. And it worked like a charm, they always walked away fairly better off. 

After all, the victim had belongings.

But it wasn’t magic. Smoke and mirrors, tricks of the trade. Lie, cheat, steal, make the crowd believe in the idea of magic, and you had them eating out of your hand.  

Magic, as its known, is tricky. It isn’t something that you can easily mark down to a set of rules and order. It’s wild, untarnished, and filled with mystery. No one knows how magic works, because magic doesn’t work. Or it didn’t. By no rights should someone be able to speak a few words and wave their hand and have the world change around them. It had to have a price, everyone knew that. Nothing was free, there was no such thing as a free lunch. 

But you wanted to believe it. You wanted it to be true, because if it was true then maybe… just maybe, you could believe it was all for a purpose. If magic existed, and bad things happened, because bad things would always happen, then perhaps it was for a higher purpose. Perhaps it was for a god, or a fate. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

So it might be better to say that perhaps magic entered into the world, if it hadn’t always been there. Tucked away and hidden, unaware of the future and role it would play. 

And Perhaps it had been for the best that people hadn’t discovered it. 

Her name was Abigail, but everyone called her Gale. It wasn’t a particularly clever nickname, nor one she was fond of. She’d liked some of the others though, she’d felt they were more accurate. Witch, Sorceress, Demon. Abigail was most keen on being a demon. It made her sound intimidating and fierce. She was a force of nature in all aspects of life. She gave one hundred percent of her attention and interest to everything that she could. However, in a society that failed to find women to be beneficial as anything other than a birthing chamber, she sorely lacked the education that would have done her good. She could have, if given the chance, soared to new heights of almost any field. 

But she wasn’t.

And the world became a very different place because of that fact. 

The world only cared about the appearance of things, Abigail decided. All anyone ever cared about was how things looked, never mind how things actually were. There was a distinctive distance between the reality of how things were from what was perceived. It wasn’t like it was a secret that Mr. Humphry had been sleeping with the mill wench. She couldn’t worse, and he couldn’t do better. It was a perfectly imperfect match. The only snag had been that Mr. Humphry was married, though they would often remark that it made the experience more lively. Not like they hadn’t been caught before, and it might have been that they would have been caught more, but a sudden failure of the heart brought a quick end to it. It didn’t matter that the failure of the heart had been from the dagger his wife had plunged into him on that cool October night when she’d finally learned the truth. All that mattered was that his heart had failed. So that’s what the town talked about. Oh sure they talked in hushed tones, and would avoid contact with newly Widowed Lady Witakeer when possible. But the story, and what a story! Oh the gossip! The town had loved it, and Abigail had never felt more separated from the people she considered friends and family. 

And perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, that was why she followed a friend to a party in the woods. Deep in the woods, further than Abigail would have considered safe most days. But not on that day, something in the air just felt… different. Like there was a reason for her steps. If she believed that they were steps in the footprints of gods, then she could drag herself along each step. 

She didn’t remember the girls name that she was with. That was the odd part of recollection though, sometimes names just slipped away. Like thoughts and moods, they seemed to shift and ebb with time. The girl had introduced herself as Scarlet, and so that had become her name. Not a name of dignity, or of importance, just a name that was used to signify that this person could be a contributor to the conversation of names. 

And Scarlet had loved parties. She been so absorbed in finding the next big party each week that Abigail half expected her to have put on half of the ones they’d gone to. And she knew everyone! It seemed like Scarlet was waylaid nonstop by passersby and utter strangers, but Scarlet greeted each by name and asked about family, friends, local gossip that related expertly to their profession and interests. Scarlet was a people person, it was how she’d managed to convince Abigail to be friends. The icy wall of separation that she normally kept up was melted slightly by the genuineness and sincerity in Scarlets words and actions. 

Scarlet had, after much prying and work, convinced her to start attending parties. The types were as ever changing as the wind, but the activities were usually the same. Drink, smoke, partake in the debauchery present, or leave. And she couldn’t leave, Scarlet would think less of her. 

And thus Abigail had arrived at the realization that things, yes, things did not matter. Not the truth anyway. Not the real, tangible aspects. It was just what people could perceive that mattered. It didn’t matter that Abigail knew Scarlet wouldn’t care, or that she wouldn’t be missed in the party scene, but she had also seen the face of disappointment fall across her companions face more than once when she’d showed interest in ditching an event. 

So she stayed, and eventualities dithered and danced across the multiverse. 

She’d assumed that when the sun had set and the moon had risen to its full height that she’d have wanted to leave. Scarlet had been bouncing from couple to couple for the better part of three hours, and showed no signs of slowing down. Eventually Abigail had had to look away. To be shy was fine, Abigail knew that, but the act of sex was just something that she had never desired. She’d occasionally felt the urge, all people do, but it had never been strong. And it had always passed quickly. That also wasn’t to say that Abigail hadn’t had experiences, she’d certainly seen enough around Scarlet to know her way around. Yet it was expected, and she couldn’t understand that either. Of course the base nature of a person drew them to procreate, but what else was it? Was it simply the need to breed? And men were… They were far too dull and uninteresting these days. Few could even recite Leanta, or even knew her name, much less her poems. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail caught sight of another person in shapely robes slinking away towards a path in between the trees*. Curiosity crept into her mind with the subtly of a sledgehammer, shattering the fragile hold she had on her feet. Without thinking and moving on an instinct that was impossible to pinpoint, Abigail stepped further and further towards the wooded path. She felt a chill roll down her spine as she approached, and breathed deep the scent of pine and… copper? Surely there hadn’t been a mining operation, had there? And what of the folks in the robes, were they miners with a penchant for mysticism? Surely not. 

There was only one way to find out for sure though, and it was by this point that she realized she’d started down the path, following the shallow light of a torch ahead. It was moving, which she took to mean that the people she’d seen before were headed to a new destination. She didn’t consider that the trees would blot out the light of the moons. Five minutes later, she had tripped, fallen, struggled up, and stumbled her way forward enough that the light was gone, and had done so slow enough to lose the torch light ahead. 

“Are you new?” Said a voice. It was pale, if a voice could be in so much of a state. It sounded like the person looked like a string, and would probably say things like “Gee,” or “Golly.” 

Abigail eased her suddenly sprinting heart down to a light trot and turned to face the voice. A simple ball of light hovered just a few steps away, unable to brighten much but brilliant in glow all the same. It had sounded pale, because it was pale. The voice was simply immaterial. That was as close to pale as an object could get. 

She knew this meant two things. One: She’d lost her mind and was falling into some hallucination. Two: The voice sounded like a little girl, and this made her uncomfortable. 

“Who are you?” Was all that Abigail could manage. As starts went, she figured it rated somewhere in the lower ranks, but far above “Hail and well met.”. Some others she had toyed with were, “What are you?” and “Tell me what death is like.” 

“I’m Prentillis.” Prentillis the floating immaterial orb said. Without vocal chords or a body, Abigail noted. “Who are you?” 

“Can I tell you my name without something bad happening?” Abigail asked. The ball of light looked confused, or as confused as a ball of light could look. Actually it was hard to tell what had given Abigail the idea of the orb being confused, but once her mind had tapped the idea it wrapped itself in it. 

“I don’t understand.” It paused, seemingly considering the conversation so far, then repeated, “Are you new?” 

“If I am, what happens?” 

“You must be brought before the Master.” 

“And the Master is?”

*Theres always some sort of path or parting or clearing or shaded grove. It doesn’t have to exist, but the gods can’t help it sometimes. Its a godly thing, gain a little bit of power and you start to expect things to be done a certain way. 

“The Master is the Master. He is the creator of all things, and leads us towards salvation.” 

Great, she thought, so I’m having a mental breakdown and it has religious elements strewn about. It would be just the thing to greet the end with an orb, it had a certain deadly affairs astetic, but to pass away in a dreamlike state talking to a ball of half light….

No. No this was just unacceptable. After all, she had things to do tomorrow. She’d need to finish organizing the town library, and the water wheel at the Gilspede Farm needed to be fixed or the town would lack sorely the relief of bread. If there were any true god out there, surely they wouldn’t let things like this happen to regular people. 

Adventures were not uncommon in the world, and there were plenty of stories about people who had traveled great distances and met untold obstacles to overcome adversity in the face of impossible odds. But that wasn’t her, and that certainly didn’t begin with a ball of light that seemed confused. She still couldn’t figure that one out. 

“Where is this,” She paused, feeling her brain doing some adjustment to better communicate with the ideals of the orb. If it had any. “I mean, Where is the Master now?”

“He is waiting.” 

A sudden fear gripped her throat. “Is he waiting for me?” 

“He is waiting.” It repeated. 

“What is he waiting for?” she persisted.

“He is waiting.” 

“Yes, but-”

“He is waiting.” 

“I-” 

“He is waiting.” The orb had slipped into a low droning that seemed to repeat with unexpected ease, like it could repeat the same thing for days and not feel the fatigue. 

“Excellent,” Abigail said, “Excellent, waiting for me I’d imagine. That would just be about the right size of this night. And I’m sure Scarlet had nothing to do with this. I wonder if she slipped me something when we shared the wine skin. Well thats fine, it’s no trouble really. Look I’ll just go and meet with the Master, shall I?” 

“I shall take you to him. He is waiting.” 

“You know, I think I got that part.” 

It turned out, the orb was able to speed along at something of a fast-walk pace. Abigail twice had to break into a light jog to maintain her position alongside. She didn’t know why she felt like being alongside the orb, only that if she fell behind or got to far ahead (not that she ever did) she knew she’d feel strange. She felt strange enough being around it, like something was happening within her and all around. The Forest had fallen deathly quiet, not even the wind had the strength to move. Abigail took a moment to appreciate the fact that she’d worn comfortable shoes, not having worried about dressing up. 

Eventually the orb led her to a broken church, half bent in on itself and splintered from years of disuse. She expected to walk in the front door and be led into some magical place, some mystical otherworld where things made sense and magic existed. Instead, they went around the side to a small iron cellar entrance set into the ground below the foundation. One of the doors was swung wide and made to look inviting. Or she assumed it was someones attempt to make the door look inviting, because they’d put out a welcome mat that read “Wipe your Paws,” in fine lettering with a small print of a puppy in the corner. She assumed it was a puppy anyway, it was difficult to tell since half the mat was covered in mud. People certainly had been good about the paw wiping request*. She’d have to remember the Font for later, it seemed to work, every good Librarian knew the power of a good font. The orb floated through and down into the cellar, disappearing from view within the Stygian chamber below. 

She didn’t know what she was doing, but she shrugged and followed as best as she could. This was made remarkably easy by the fact that the orb had gone barely five feet in, when it had stopped and turned. Again she found herself wondering how she could tell the differences, but she was certain there were some. Her subconscious clearly had more sense, but then again that made sense, she was on some sort of psychedelic experience thanks to that friend of hers. 

“Where are we going?” Abigail asked. It wasn’t really an attempt to get an answer, more to fill the space with words. The silence was deafening. Except, she waited, yes there it was again. It wasn’t silent, because every few seconds a drumming or droning flitted up to her ears. The orb turned again, aiming in the direction of where the noises were loudest, and slowly proceeded, but with much more consideration of the speed for Abigail. She stepped forward to follow, and it waited for her to catch up. 

“He is waiting.” 

“Yes, Yes. So you’ve said.” 

“The wicked shall not go unpunished.” 

This gave Abigail pause

“What?” 

“He is waiting.” it droned again. 

Chanting and murmurs of a struggle bounded through the cellar, crashing like lazy waves against an unexpecting buoy. Scarlet, she’d heard Scarlet. But not in anyway that she’d ever heard before. Certainly she’d never heard her cry out in pain like that. 

With a quickened step as well as racing heart, Abigail rushed through the halls and rooms, following the din of chants as they rose and fell. The closer she got though, the slower she moved and the more her actions felt less her own. With each step, Abigail felt the sensation of her physical control being peeled away. She couldn’t scream, her mouth opened and closed and noise came out, but it was a chant now. Not the same as the ones she heard repeated around her as she slowly stepped into the hall. It was filled with robed figures, all massed around a struggling, naked figure in the center of the room. She caught glimpses of a bare leg here or a breast there. It sounded just like Scarlet, which would have concerned her more, except… Abigail realized that the urge she’d just felt had passed. 

She was calm. She spoke the words. 

Abigail stepped further towards the circle, spurred on by a force beyond her control. Her movements were not her own, her body was not acting on her instructions. Abigail tried to scream again, but only managed to falter the sentence she’d been chanting. 

. 

*Thats the power of a good typeface and font though. Worlds are built on words, and the written word doubly so. Theres just something far more powerful in the written word. Not that spoken has anything lack of power. Ultimately it comes down to the imagination of the speaker, or writer as the case may be.

Two of the robed figures before her stepped aside, and revealed in all her glory, the bloody, beaten frame of Scarlet. She was black and blue in blotches. Her arms were bound, as were her legs. It looked as if she was crying

“Why?” She whimpered. “Why?”

“We are waiting.” replied a man. “And you are merely a course of that great meal.” 

“I don’t understand,” Scarlets sobs broke the words apart, but she managed to get them out. “Please, I don’t understand. You said you wanted us.” 

“Yes, I did say that. But the truth is, that we needed her.”

Now Abigail could see who was talking to her, it was a thin man in ghastly grey robes that looked tattered and well used. He look like most people feel after a night of heavy boozing and hard drugs, and he was missing teeth. He motioned a grubby, gnarled hand across the circle and drew Scarlets attention to.. To her. Scarlets face was awash with surprise as she took in the sight of her friend, standing before her in a robe and holding a dagger. 

It was then, that she realized she’d put one on at some point. And the dagger hadn’t been there moments before, had it? What was she expected to do again? The chanting was droning out her thoughts, Abigail couldn’t think straight, couldn’t get the thoughts to line up and organize. 

As she struggled to muster the will to fight against whatever force was controlling her, Abigails mind was drawn in another direction entirely. One of the lines in the chant had been wrong. She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t know why. Without a thought, Abigail raised a hand, and the room fell silent. It felt as if the air in the room vanished as she mouthed a line. It had surely made a sound, but if it had, Abigail hadn’t heard it. She only heard the screaming, and saw the wide eyed face of Scarlet as the blade was brought to her throat. 

She was speaking the right words, and now that she was, everyone else was too. Static filled the air, pooling in the lungs and coating the space. Abigail pressed the dagger further against Scarlets neck and a sliver of blood trailed crimson down.

“Take her life.” The man said. 

“I can’t” She wanted to say, but the words didn’t come. Instead she continued to chant. But she didn’t move. 

“You can.” He urged “We’ve been waiting so long now.” 

“I won’t” She screamed mentally “I won’t do it. I won’t kill her.” 

“You must, or we are doomed.” 

“Is this your joy? Is this your fun? Where is the comfort in the killing?” Abigails mind protested. He was reading her thoughts. She wasn’t able to control herself, but she could think and perhaps that would be enough. 

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps. 

He took the blade from her suddenly limp hands and plunged it into Scarlet. 

The chanting reached a crescendo.

Someone screamed.

Someone fell limp. 

The world changed, and Magic was born.