75 Years BP:
Magic was once the soul of Llanthea, mages, wizards and sorcerers were common place –both in the castles of the rich and the slums of the poor. The inheritance of magical power accumulated, leading to families rising to power and wealth simply through organised marriages and pairings. The Council, a mostly non-magical government of officials, recognised this as a problem – the continent becomes an unstable clash of magical and non-magical people.
The suppression began with the anti-magic laws; it began with arrests for public displays of magic and the law enforcers acting on even the slightest rumours of magical violence. Soon enough it was illegal to even show signs of magical blood – a concentration camp, in the outskirts of the capital city of Halice, housed the rounded up mages, as well as anyone who was considered a possible mage. The only way to escape this fate was to join The Council, and become servants of injustice.
One of the most magically diverse families, the Croids, were the first (and last) mages to defect to The Council’s side. With their magical prowess, they were ordered to manage and secure the magic camps and prevent escape – the only condition was exclusive use of their magic, with a contract which prevented them having magical children. With The Council’s manpower and the Croids’ powers resistance was impossible. As the concentration camps became more and more crowded, the conditions for the inmates worsened. Before long the numbers dwindled.
On the third sunrise of Summer the last prisoners died. Not of famine, starvation or suicide – but lined up and executed in the centre of town. The townspeople did not cry, or grieve, for those who had died that day or in the many seasons before. Instead, cheers echoed around the streets, revelling in the pain of the dying and jeering at those still waiting for death.
The executioner of Halice took the last of their heads, his axe covered in the blood of innocent mages and their relations. All that remained of magic rested in the souls of the Croid family. Their position as keepers in the now empty concentration camp became void and their immunity to persecution invalid. Surrounded by the Knights’ Guard of Halice, at the site already tainted by magical blood, the family of few became ensnared. The townsmen of Halice cheered further, pushing The Council to act, to declare the Croids as dead and done – it didn’t take long for their wishes to be fulfilled.
“Die you magic scum!”
“People of Halice,” boomed a terrifying voice from an on-looking tower, “for many years the Croid family have stood by our side as equals, but in truth they are nothing more than pets.” The senior councilman’s words caught further support from the city, and the circle of armed men clenched tighter around the final mages. “Today we make history, in finally cleansing the world of their evil, now all people of the land are equal. No more magical tyrants shall threaten us, no more of our lives shall be belittled by their ‘magnificence',’” he said the final word with a threatening sneer, raising his hand in to the air for all to see, before slamming it on the railing in front of him, “Kill them!”
“Ready?” Whispered the eldest male, a highly charged static aura surrounding his person. The lightning mage of the Croids was the most established of the family, able to manipulate electric properties down to a tee. His sister, a petite red-haired mage, nudged him in acknowledgement. They both waited, the perfect moment, whereby they might have the chance to escape. Even with their combined magic they would be overpowered, simply by the amount of men, especially at such a close distance.
“Kill them!” screamed the leading councilman, ordering the troops to converge on the family for the final time. From here it was all or nothing.
The Knights were quick, sporting polearms and swords they ran towards the small group with alarming speed. “Now!” screamed the elder male, throwing his static energy out from his body, surrounding the group in a shroud of prickly electricity. The girl, hands at the ready, drew a symbol of magic in the air – summoning a haze of mist to envelop and cover the cornered mages. The armed men around them grew confused, wary in the poor vision, which was the perfect opportunity for one final magic technique.
Using the static he had expelled earlier, the eldest Croid guided stronger lightning energy in a large magic circle, a pattern which covered the ground the mage family stood on. The other families held the warriors back, using their flames, rocks, and water techniques – they guarded the boundary of the magical circle at all costs. After precious, vital seconds of preparation the mist scattered – revealing the bright yellow, sparking, magical circle surrounding the magicians. The ground rumbled, the townspeople screaming in terror, and a bright white light erupted up from the earth, engulfing the weary Croids and blinding their enemies.
“Lyle!” cried the red-haired woman, the light brightening and her brothers and sisters falling from her view.
As the light flickered, narrowing its breadth gradually, the crowd, the knights and councilmen a-like gasped in horror. In the centre of the charred, ash covered, circle of ground was only one mage, the eldest man, crouched and seemingly injured. His clothes were ripped, burnt, and his skin charred and bleeding – the man, Lyle, was in no state to fight. Despite his injuries, a certain toll of such powerful magic, he slowly raised himself to a standing position. The smile on his face was obvious, even to the councilmen sitting atop their tower, who were blistering with anger.
“JUST KILL HIM YOU INCOMPETENT FOOLS!”
The first knight was too hasty, the mage easily avoided his sword and swung a static fist at the soldiers head – not only shattering his skull but causing his brain to self-destruct on itself. More men followed though, lunging with their polearms from a distance. The first strike grazed his arm, causing him to spin off course of his target, and straight on to a second pole arm. He was enclosed, surrounded, and out of moves.
After the fifth polearm pierced his body he finally gave up, his eyes looking to the sky – at the looming thunder clouds, as his consciousness slipped away from him.