Goodness, just some practice writing. I've been busy with college so...oops.
The Heights never slept. Suspended above an endless sky, its floating Grecian structures drifted like islands in a sea of heat and light. Marble columns twisted midair, staircases reassembled themselves with each step, and bridges curved in impossible arcs. The sun never set here—it blazed eternally, casting golden fire across every surface. The air shimmered, thick with divine energy and the scent of scorched stone.
Telamon stood at the edge of a spiraling platform, his gold-and-black wings unfurled like banners of war. His yellowish skin glowed beneath the sun’s glare, and his long brown curls danced in the thermal winds. The emotionless smile he wore was a mask, but today it cracked ever so slightly. His golden eyes narrowed.
“Telamon grows weary of delay,” he muttered, voice echoing like distant thunder. “The Banlands await conquest, and Telamon will not be denied.”
With a flick of his wrist, the marble beneath his feet shifted into a descending pathway. Each tile slid into place without sound, guiding him into the hidden depths of the floating city. His robe billowed behind him as he descended, every step a promise of divine authority.
The air cooled as Telamon reached the Archives’ entrance—a yawning mouth of stone carved with trembling glyphs. Inside, torches guttered near shelves of obsidian and ivory that soared into darkness. Scrolls, codices, and relics lay undisturbed. Enchanted quills hovered in midair, scratching at invisible parchment, but there was no bustle of scholars, no laughter or debate—only silence.
Telamon’s boots clicked against polished obsidian floors as he strode through the labyrinthine halls. He passed sealed vaults humming with warded power and mirrors reflecting histories long forgotten. Every corridor felt heavier, as if knowledge itself waited, breath held. Yet no sign of Dusekkar emerged.
At last, he reached the final chamber.
A circular room, its walls etched with faded constellations and runes that pulsed faintly, housed a single chair at its center. In that chair slumped Dusekkar. The dullahan mage’s form was unmistakable: shoulders draped in hand-stitched robes and a silent flame where his skull once was. A low, rhythmic purr resonated from his chest.
Telamon halted, wings twitching.
“Telamon finds this unacceptable,” he said, stepping forward. “The fount of knowledge should not slumber while the world turns.”
He nudged the mage’s shoulder. The flame fluttered but failed to rise. Telamon’s brow furrowed.
“Wake, Dusekkar,” he ordered. “Telamon requires your wisdom.”
Conquest demanded patience Telamon rarely possessed. Still, the Banlands called—and without Dusekkar’s guidance, victory would be folly. He surveyed the chamber: a carved alcove lined with cushions, folded blankets embroidered with protective sigils, and low benches meant for weary scribes. Telamon lifted the softest blanket and draped it over the slumbering mage, tucking it carefully around his shoulders and knees. He arranged a pair of velvet cushions against the chair’s backrest so Dusekkar could recline more deeply.
The flame steadied under the warmth. Telamon crossed his arms, wings folded tight.
“Telamon does not nurse,” he murmured. “Telamon conquers.”
Time stretched until it lost all meaning. Telamon stood sentinel beside the mage’s chair, eyes fixed on the flickering flame. With each pulse, he imagined the Banlands’ wind-blasted ridges, the hidden caverns choked with icy dust, the crevices that might swallow an unwary army whole. Schemes of siege engines and frost-forged battalions assembled in his mind, only to collapse without Dusekkar’s arcane insight.
He began to pace. The polished stone floor offered no purchase; his boots slid soft on the obsidian. He circled the chamber, studying shelves lined with bronze-bound tomes and enamel-inlaid scripts. His gaze drifted to a nearby alcove that housed Clockwork, overseer of time, its mechanisms ticking in perpetual loops. A thought flickered: seek Clockwork’s aid—perhaps the fount of time could rouse the slumbering mage. But the deity of hours was flighty towards the demigod, preferring to lose themselves in useless minutes and hours than to stay by his side. Too meek for this. Telamon dismissed the notion with a scowl and returned to his vigil.
He bent low and spoke again, voice hushed but urgent: “Telamon needs maps of shifting crevices. Telamon needs the winds’ patterns. Telamon needs the dust’s secrets.”
Anger coiled in his chest. He straightened, wings bristling, and struck a rune-inscribed pillar with his fist. A surge of light bloomed along the etchings, rattling parchments on the nearest shelf. Telamon’s jaw clenched. He had summoned the might of the sun in battle, parted seas of enemies with a gesture—yet he could not wake this mage.
He leaned against the wall, back to the glyphs. The runes glowed in response to his divine aura but offered no aid. The quills continued their silent scribbling, as if recording his frustration for eternity.
In a rare moment, Telamon closed his eyes. His smile grew more agitated and pained, his patience wearing thin.
He opened his eyes to find the flame still flickering, and the purring undiminished. Telamon’s fists unclenched, his wings sagged, and an unfamiliar impatience gnawed at him. He straightened once more, resolve hardening like carved marble.
He would not leave. He would not relent. He would weather this interminable wait if that was what it took. He would wait until the flame burned brightly again, until the flame-headed mage opened his eyes, until Dusekkar spoke the words that would unlock the Banlands’ secrets.
And so Telamon stood, alone in the hush of the Archives, waiting.
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