Most of the great wizards of the world had epithets fitting their status. Julian of the Third Eye, Markos Sorceries Bane, William Windwalker. Ezra the Abandoned did not have an epithet that anyone would be proud of. He had earned his epithet the day after he had earned his wizard's athame, when his newly named master had perished trying to unweave a seventh level Mendrel's Unbreaking Knot. A wizard's athame could only ever know one holder, and the ritual bound that holder to a single master. Ezra was a wizard, just a wizard without a spell or a teacher.

He did have a spellbook. Well, his master had a spellbook, and since the few pieces of the man that could be packed into a box no longer had much use for it, the only rational place for it to go was to Ezra. There were no words for self taught wizards before Ezra, but in his time there had been a few: hedge witch, wardless, hopeless, dangerous.

That last word, frankly, had a point. In general, a wizard's apprentice was expected to raise about one circle in spellcasting every two years until the third level, five years until the fifth level, and then once a decade to the seventh. Any who progressed beyond the seventh and didn't perish was considered exceptionally skilled. His master had known and recorded three seventh level spells. One of which had killed him.

He had also recorded one ninth level spell, Terenicus' Eonic Tutor. The brief description scrawled under it in his master's hand "this spell was recovered in fragments by my master's master, and to my knowledge has never been attempted. In theory, it condenses the knowledge accrued in the athame bond through the master-apprentice chain. Seeking out the most powerful of the descendants, though whether in raw mana or in spellcasting theory is not currently known."

A ninth circle spell was suicide for a second year apprentice whose total tutelage was less than a full afternoon, but it was also seemingly the only way out of his current bondless predicament. It had taken every day of those two years to prepare the ritual space. Dew from the morning grass after a full moon, the ink of a quill spilled on parchment, a freshly laid hen's egg boiled in honey, the tears of a newborn babe, and the tears of the mother. So many other ingredients, none - luckily, expensive, but all somewhat tedious to gather. The ritual circle seemed too simple and spartan, especially scratched into the dirt behind his master's old college, as he began to encant.

The first stanza was spoken as the athame sliced the egg in half, leaving the yolk exposed in a pewter bowl. Hand passes were simple, but the sun was high, and soon sweat beaded his brow. The second and third stanza's passed without incident and his confidence began to build as the sun started to set. The tears were sprinkled into the bowl, they and the dew had been the last to be gathered, too soon and they would have been naught but smoke by the ritual.

The fourth stanza was spoken as the dew entered the bowl and the moon shined above. He was tired now, and the precision of his passes was not what it should have been, but still he felt power building somewhere behind a wall he couldn't see, and his athame began to glow a faint silver.

Finally came the sunrise, and the seventh stanza. As the parchment was laid atop the egg in the bowl and his athame glowed nearly as brightly as the rising sun. His eyes burned to look upon it, and the final pass brought the athame down into the bowl, stabbing through parchment and yolk into the gleaming fluids in the bowl. His final word "Teoch!" ringing in the small yard, imploring something to answer.

The athame pierced the veil into that power beyond, and his call went out.

Then things went wrong.

The blinding light of the athame went dark, the blade itself instantly becoming an unlight of some kind, a luminous black void that seemed the enemy of the very sun. The fluid in the bowl went from shining water to dark boiling blood, and for a moment his soul stretched the eons, seeing, knowing, and being a thousand - ten thousand, different mages everywhere and everywhen. It lasted an instant, but time was meaningless, since he was forever. But as time coalesced around a single point again, he didn't return alone. Something, someone, came along for the ride.

"You know, I never thought someone would actually cast it. Let alone get it so wrong," the other figure in the clearing slowly coalesced into a man with a shock of unruly brown hair, green eyes, and a distinct scar stretching across his left cheek. His smile was handsome, and his body strong, if not young. He was perhaps three decades ezra's senior, and his gaze recalled in Ezra memories of horrific devastation in his time from that abyss, "I must say though, you've gotten it wrong rather perfectly. Better in fact than I had planned it. My own version left me bound to your will, and it might have taken me some time to break free. Your version though? Somehow you've managed something far greater. I am free to act, and you've unbound an athame. Ten millenia of safeguards and ritual to place limits on wizardry, and you've broken them all in less than a day. Truly, truly magnificent work. Ezra the Abandoned they called you. I name you Ezra, Last of the Heralds."

The man stepped forward, and placed his hands around Ezra's neck. He tried to run, to flee, to do anything - but his very soul seemed pinned to the ritual circle by the Athame. As the life was choked out of his body, Ezra heard only the laugh of a man he had learned to know in that infinite abyss; the heretic, the magebreaker, the bringer of chaos, Horus, first of the Heralds.

The city of Tofrahaeth had been abuzz for nearly a decade over the magical prodigy that was Michael of the Arbaeli family. He could bend the elements to his whim, explain complex concepts in terms even of a five year old could understand, and create magical items that would surely bring about a revolution in the kingdom of Orkugarthur in the near future. What he couldn't do, however, was summoning magic.

It was a damn shame that he wasn't me.

I would have given anything to be Michael, growing up. To see him, to know him, to learn from him. But we lived worlds apart - he was a noble of Tofrahaeth, and I was living as the son of a lumberjack in the outskirts of a little village two days away called Dulskog. What we lacked in people we made up for in trees with rainbow bark and silver leaves. Artists would visit our town to paint the trees and forest, but to me, they weren't really anything special; just a way to put food on the table.

My father assured me that one day I would follow his path in chopping down and processing trees to be exported to the city for a variety of goods. It wasn't a fate I wanted for myself, and truth be told, while I was no Michael Arbaeli, I had a secret of my own: I could do magic.

I had never held a proper wand or staff in my life, but I had discovered at a young age that the dreams I had of circles with strange shapes and unfamiliar writing were actually used in summoning. The words were lost on me; it would be a miracle if I could read them, because I could barely read and write Mothurmal or Vithskapti. I wasn't a noble or even a merchant's child, so why would I know how to read or write in the first place?

The act of summoning was actually pretty simple: you would draw the circle as required and then say... anything while thinking of wanting to have company. I don't know if this is how summoning was done in Tofrahaeth, but for me, it was sufficient. I had summoned all sorts of creatures and beasts in this way, though they always departed after half a day's time.

One night, I went to bed, wishing that I too could come to be as well known as the prodigy everyone spoke of. Over the course of the night, I had an unusual dream. There was a circle, yes, that I saw. But there were eyes. Many, many eyes. And a feeling that someone... or perhaps, more accurately, someTHING... was watching me. I woke up in a sweat from the dream and pondered if I should dare draw out the circle that had caused me such unease. But why else had I dreamt of it, if not to bring it to fruition?

I got changed and set out in the darkness into a small clearing in the wood where I usually drew my circles. Nobody would dare come this deep into the forest, especially at night. Indeed, there felt something eerie about the woods tonight - normally, the moonlight and starlight would reflect off the rainbow bark of the trees and produce a faint sparkle of color in every direction. Instead, there was just a thick darkness that choked the light out of the forest.

Perhaps that was my second warning, with the first being the feeling in my dream, that I should stop. That I should turn back. But still, I pressed on to the clearing. In the darkness, I took to drawing out the summoning circle as I had dreamt it. It was clear in my mind, clearer than they normally were. When I finished, I found myself staring at a large, complex image carved into the dirt. Despite the signs, I held my hands out in front of the circle and focused my intent: I wanted something to give me company, something that would help me be as well known as Michael Arbaeli of Tofrahaeth.

In an unusual display, red light began to spread along the lines I had carved until they all connected. Then, a column of light erupted forth and the earth shook, causing me to fall. Slowly rising from the ground came an enormous, wriggling mass of dark violet tentacles, the ends of each showing a luminous red eyeball. When it was finally finished emerging from the circle, it was taller than the trees and had knocked over several.

My body shook all over in terror. "Wh...what!" I couldn't help but speak as I backed away on all fours, not turning away from the creature. In that instant, all of its many-tentacled eyes focused on me, and it seemed to hunch over, glaring down at me.

"... child of mine," it intoned, sickly-sweet voice coming from I-don't-know-where. "We have much to discuss."

Fascination was betrayed in the wide saucers that were my eyes. Dim flickers of candlelight and dying embers of the once roaring hearth, shone only in faint hues of crimson and citrine. The Ancestor was vaguely familiar in shape, but the features of the beast were entirely fantastical and unnatural. Over the thin shrieks of the window outside my chamber, the soft, shallow breaths of the demonic Ancestor were all that could be heard. My breath had caught within my chest and my heart had seemed to cease it's hammering against my bosom.

The summoning circle had long since ceased to glow with the enchanting magic, the now scorched ash and soot of the materials being swept by some hitherto unknown force into the corners and crevices of the wooden floor. The stirring of the beast drew my attention to the hideous face it held. A single long probuscis dangled loosely upon it's chest and multifaceted beetle black eyes sat on either side of its head.

I knew the spell's side effects on the entity would soon give way and it would awaken. Quick hands, practiced and trained in the most basic elements of the summoning arts spread the salt and protective willow charms I had made for this purpose. A quick glance to the demon's head revealed a series of runes had become visible upon it's forehead between two armored stumps where horns must have once been.

Though the language was ancient, the runes archaic, the name they spelled brought a new, fresh wave of fear into my heart. Professors, scholars, teachers and tutors alike, with my father's patronage having afforded all manner of education and enlightenment for me in my youth, had warned of this name. A fierce, insectoid prince of Hell, a king of all scourges and pestilence, the gluttonous lord of flies.

"Beelzebub."

My voice had been soft, barely a whisper, but the simple utterance I'd given had lent a sudden start to the demon prince of Hell. Fear, confusion, amazement, all flooded through me as I tried to understand how this was my Ancestor. Had I made a mistake? Written a rune wrong? Spake a syllable in the ritual chanting and recitation incorrectly? I had known this spell was unlikely to be successful, and had been warned it may be dangerous, but my damnable curiosity had driven me to this moment. This would be my final achievement in life and yet also a resounding failure as there was no doubt I'd be soon dragged back into the depths of hell. Charms and scripture could only protect me so long.

"Yeah?'

I felt my body freeze, my hands turning clammy, and my heart dropping as the demon slowly revived and sat up. Those terrible, horrible, shining black eyes turned to look at me, into me, past me. They showed nothing but my own reflection a thousand times framed and silhouetted against the now fading firelight. I attempted to take a step back, but the demon was standing quickly, with speed beyond what even I would have expected of someone pulled through time and space. But the laws of the universe did not obey a being such as this Beelzebub.

"Wait."

The voice bade me to stop, to halt and wait it emanated from the base of the probuscis which seemed to undulate and swing freely, the end of which I now noticed tucked up and behind the demon. A large hand rose in an outward faced palm, and I raised my wand in defiance against the spell that was soon to come. But it never did, rather a second hand rose to side of the demons head and in an instant my mind was racked with confusion, relief, curiosity, and fear all over again.

"What is your name child?"

I felt a flood of questions and a wave of emotion wash over me as the deep voice spoke and filled the room. My eyes peering deep into the two pools of hazel that had once been hidden behind the insect-like plates. Comfort, sadness, heat and chills spread two fold as I swallowed back my fear and whispered a single word in response.

"Marie."

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, Dread Demon Prince of Hell, whom had once struck down the great Elvish Lord Roharadon and his legions, whom had sacked the ancient capital of the Empire and split the continent in two with great arrows and spells from above, the commander of legions of imps that had killed countless soldiers of the Grand Army of the Imperium...

Was Human.

"It's okay Marie. They won't ever hurt you again, now that I've been given my second chance."

(A teensy bit off prompt but i was inspired!)

As a young wizard, I found a spell.

It was a strange thing. By itself, in an otherwise completely unnoteworthy cave. Written on parchment so ancient it crumbled somewhat to the touch. The document itself was worn and missing segments, and my best translation was rather imprecise. Still, I could intuit what it was meant to do. It was an ancestor resurrection spell.

At the time I had no use for it. I’m sure some of my ancient ancestors would have liked to be resurrected, but I wasn’t willing to risk piercing the veil for people I had never known. That changed when my mother got sick.

It was a gradual thing, the sickness that killed her. At first she only started to feel tired. Then she began to cough. And as years passed, she became more and more brittle, more and more frail. I tried every healing spell I knew, and learned half a hundred new ones, but it wasn’t ever enough. It never made her better for more than a few weeks.

Finally, I turned to the resurrection spell.

I thought I understood it enough. I thought I would be able to tweak it to summon forth the ancestor I knew, the one I wanted. I spent the final months of my mother’s life, when I wasn’t by her side, collecting the ingredients and preparing the summoning circle. She kept telling me I shouldn’t put my hopes in it, that I should prepare to let her go. Spells don’t always work, after all.

But I was determined. When the moment came, I laid her old body to rest and I set to work. I covered over my etchings with salt and blood. I set my components out in bowls, which I worked over with incantations. With careful precision I anchored the spell to the mountain. For a moment all was still. And then… there was a horrible rumbling sound from deep within the earth.

As it grew louder, the ground began to shake. Rocks and gravel began tumbling down the slope, trees swayed and branches snapped. And it kept growing louder. The shaking grew so violent I fell to my knees, cutting myself open on the shifting terrain. The horizon heaved, the sky spun. Helpless, with nothing to hold on to, I was tossed like a wretched rag doll by the violent tremors. Through streaming eyes, I saw the mountain shift. At first I thought it was the swaying, my eyes couldn’t focus, I was disoriented. But the mountain was bulging. What started as a protrusion grew into a large ridge, rock screaming in protest all the while. Something was pushing it from the inside. Something was coming out of it.

Too late I realized, that ancient language I had translated was draconic. Too late I realized this trick must have been how she returned from death the first time, and the second. Lyraxa, the World Breaker, she had been called. All I could do was stare in terror and dread as the first talon, thick as a tree trunk, broke the surface. The great creature kept scrabbling at the small hole it had made until first its hand, then its arm, broke through. And finally, with one last, shuddering heave and a shower of boulders, it birthed itself from the rock, leaving the mountain to collapse, hollow, behind it.

The dragon shook herself off, her wings spreading impossibly wide as she stretched. Her great head swiveled around, sunlight glinting golden off her deep red scales. Her teeth were as long as a man is tall. If the trees had still been standing, they wouldn’t have even come up to her shoulder. Her gaze caught on me. I stopped breathing. And then, in a voice full of thunder and smoke, she spoke.

“Son?”

Perhaps I hadn’t gotten the spell entirely wrong, after all.

My stomach twisted in a manner I didn’t think possible. The urge to expel everything I’d eaten in the past week from my mouth was on a dangerous uphill climb, and my blood felt like ice churning through every inch of my body. My clammy hands trembled, letting the heirloom—a simple necklace—drop to the floor. It clattered, momentarily cutting the deathly silence in the chamber which held me and this—

Thing.

It was only human in appearance, baring something I hated to call my likeness. A woman described as the most wicked to ever exist. Someone that stood unopposed as the pinnacle of abomination, a pedestal of monstrous malice and inhuman inconsideration of life. The evilest creature to lay eyes upon the world. In centuries upon centuries, no warlord, tyrant, or beast even managed to hold a candle to the blazing wildfire that was her sheer villainy.

I didn’t dare utter her name, but I could not stop my mind from betraying me and impulsively bringing it to life. Noelle La Pravus, the woman I’d given new life to only moments ago. The woman who I now knew as my predecessor.

She stepped forwards, escaping the shadow that momentarily eclipsed her form. My beady eyes met hers for only a second, for that was all I could bare before I fell to my knees, gaze glued to the ground I clung to. It was not an act of respect, nor obedience. But every cell in my body instinctually bent to whatever horrific aura Noelle had about her, and, like how once naturally shirks from flame after being burnt, standing near her felt like a noose around my throat. I realized, then, that this would be the day I die. No miracle, no god, could save me from the monster I’d given new flesh. No, in fact, they most likely damned me. Cursed my foolish curiosity, which birthed the second coming of absolute evil. I did nothing but wait, preparing for whatever manner of creature she would allow to make a meal out of me with her manipulation of dark matter itself. I squeeze my eyes tight, and wait, and wait, and wait, and pray it will be swift.

But nothing comes.

When I finally build the minuscule courage to open my eyes, through blurry vision, I can make out a hand. Terror grips me as she grasps my wrist. Instead of tearing my arm off, shoulder included—I’m lifted to my feet. For the first time in the minutes I’d been subjected to this hell, I finally felt worthy of taking a breath. And then, in the moments that pass, I can amass enough strength in my tongue to speak.

“Why—“

“Why not?”

She cuts me off, and I don’t make the mistake of doing anything but listen.

“Your blood is mine. Then, in the same manner, my blood is yours. That spell requires strength, child. And you seem to have it in spades. Your life will not end here. It has become the conduit for mine to begin anew.”

“You are now an incarnation of carnage, just as I. We shall open old scars and slice new wounds into the world. From this moment forwards, think of yourself as cursed. And I, as your hex.”

With no more than a swivel of her body, one of her four arms dragged my comparatively small figure along, descending deeper into the blackness before us.

“Come. We’ve much to do.”

The earth cracks with a thunderous sound that sickens me. I just know it's the sound of broken bones, only multiplied by a thousandfold. The decayed hand of The Beast shoots up the wound on the ground, and grasps around until it finds leverage. A skinny arm pulls the tattered and ragged body up from the depths where it should stay, and two burning eyes focus on mine.

"Look how much you've grown!" The Beast howls, her voice making the ground shake. She lifts her other hand and it snaps up close to my face, pinching my cheek. Her skin is rough and her claws dangerous.

"You just have your mother's eyes, don't you? How long has it been? 10? 13 years?"

I shake my head. "Since when?" I manage to ask, trembling.

"Since you were born, silly. I held you just like this." The Beast mimes shaking something in her hand, as if she was holding an invisible pair of dice.

"I'm... I'm 34." I correct her. Her gasp pushes me back with a gust of air, and I land on my own ass.

"I can't believe it's been so long! How come?"

I look up at her. My vision is clouded with tears of fear.

"That's not possible! You died before the Age of Crystal!" I cry out. My knuckles are white on top of my fists.

"The what?" The Beast rises her head over the treeline and gasps again. The few animals that hadn't run away just yet flee for their lives. The forest is silent, her movements echoing through the unnatural stillness. "Where's the Keep? Aio, what's going on here?"

I recognize that name. Aio the Terrible. A figure of legend, the one that tried to revive The Beast and was thwarted by the Empire and the Council. That bloody war was almost as destructive as The Beast's original rampage.

She looks back at me. The grass on the ground flares up and burns away under her gaze. "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry. You are not Aio, are you? I seem to be confused." She stomps her elbow on the ground, leaving a crater. Her horned, burning face lowers to look at me closer. "You do have my blood in your veins. You are family."

Her toothy mouth splits in a mockery of a smile.

"What do you think? Shall we try again, uh?" She asks. I simply pass out from the fear.

"Raise the dead," they said, "It'll be fun,' they said.

Ok, they never said that. The one thing they did say was never to experiment with necromancy. Surely, resurrection didn't count though, right? That's animating skeletons and liches and stuff. This should be a positive thing, at any rate.

I guess it helps to know who or what you're resurrecting, though.

Magic is hereditary, and while nobody knows exactly where it began, and sometimes an anomaly does pop up, for the most part magic runs in the blood, and it's that simple. As such family lineages go back at least a few hundred years for most, a thousand or so for a few select families. Know someone who was "descended from Charlemagne"? Chances are they're magic. Or full of it.

In any case, nobody's lineages go back much past that, and right now you were sincerely wishing they did. With a few fateful words you had brought back to the world something that should have stayed dead - that you wished had. And it was sizing you up.

Sanavar, The End of Hope, among other epithets, stood before you, and when they spoke, your marrow chilled in your bones. "Greetings, my progeny." The words were... felt, not heard. "You are powerful for one so young."

Stammering you answered, not exactly knowing what you'd say as the words dribbled out. "Thank you, I'm a bit of a natural" you said, already feeling like being too proud of your accomplishments today is a mistake. Still, you babbled a bit because you knew who you were speaking to, and didn't know what else to say. "I mean, I study whatever I can get my hands on." The spell you'd pulled out from the abandoned magical library lingered in your mind. Casting your eyes to the floor, if only to break the gaze of Sanavar, you fumbled behind you to bring the scroll forward, the thought of a way to undo this passes over your mind.

Seizing upon the dusty parchment and bringing it around in front of you, you look up and suddenly realize Sanavar towers directly in front of you, and they reach out and snatch your wrist. "Old magic indeed," a voice of flame and smoke reverberates in your mind as they appraise the scroll, as your wrist feels frozen and smoldering at once. "This place is a source of immense power, and you were wise to try this ritual here. By our wisdom we shall make of you our Emissary to this world, and you shall bring them under my heel. Kneel, progeny."

Wrist still in an iron grip, you do as commanded. A hand that seems to shimmer in reality, there and not, reaches out to touch your forehead. Your free hand behind you, and with all your concentration, you make a symbol that your master taught you, something to be used in direst emergency. Finishing not a moment too soon, you feel an inrush of seeming incomprehensible thought, and the realm around you swims and shifts.

"Rise," commands the voice of terror. Shakily clambering to stand, your vision swims violently in a manner you've never contemplated. Behind the unholy being a light so bright it causes you disorientation and pain explodes into view, a luminous being emerges. Hearing your name as if from a great distance you wince and double over, only feeling the aftermath of what happened.

Sanavar roared as the blast of magic impacted them, and you felt the blastwave washed past you. Glimpsing him from between Sanavar's legs, your old master and grand master of your order completed another spell lifting Sanavar off the ground and into the wall behind you. Scrambling to your feet you summon what energy you have and steady yourself as Sanavar prepared to counter attack.

Remembering a spell you'd once read through the brain fog, your master's blast was caught and deflected by Sanavar as if he'd sent a training flare. Adrenaline slowed your perception of time and seeing an opening, you unleash a swarm of razor-like voids in space. It tore at Sanavar's flesh, and over the sound of pain, in your mind you hear that darkest voice in rage and shock, "You dare to attack with my own magic, progeny!?!"

Mid summon, your master was staring at you in something between appraisal and horror. Focusing to clear your mind and appreciating what had just been said, you realize you never studied that spell, or even heard of it.

Like a splinter in your mind, a spell calls to you. A brief flick of your wrist sharpens your recollection, the memory of the scroll you'd had before clarifies. Sanavar, seeing the curl of your lip, takes a defensive stance, ready to deflect your spell. A complex twisting produces a burst of electricity in the air. Directing your motion directly at The End of Hope, the deflecting spell starts, but stops as quickly as it started. A gentle gust of wind enters the room through boarded up windows, and Sanavar fades to mist.

"Master, I..."

"We will talk about this," he says sharply, but then, softening, "after some rest."

"And much more," you think to yourself, without meaning to.

Your master's eyes widen in shock.

I just stood there, mouth a gape, staring with unbelieving eyes at the creature before me. It was as massive as it was terrifying, being 6 foot tall myself, it was easily twice my size. It had dark grey skin, almost like that of a rhino or elephant, but for all it's size it's head seemed almost disproportionately small, and with no visible neck. For being twice as tall it had too have been at least 4 or 5 times heavier, arms and legs like tree trunks, and a torso like one of those flat faced semi-trucks. By far the most terrifying part though were the eyes, not to mention the complete lack of any visible mouth or nose. It had four eyes, one pair where you would think eyes should be, and one pair being set a little closer to where one would think the creatures' ears would be. There was no white to it's eyes, just darkness, black in the center and dark shades of gray fading away from where I was sure the pupil was.

There was no doubt that the creature was looking at me though, it's gaze not quite looking me in the eye, but piercing, as if it were trying to see behind me, and it was quite unsettling. I had read about the creature only briefly, texts that even mention it were scarce and mostly in volumes speaking of mythologies. Images of it were scarcer still, but the memory of the few times I had seen them had certainly stuck. Those texts never gave a name, only referring to it as The Destroyer. In the ancient myths, it was believed to have been responsible for the razing of all of Atlantis.

Completely frozen in fear, I still just stood there staring at it, wondering where I had gone wrong in casting the spell. It was old magic and translation took a fair bit of time, but it was still fairly straight forward. The only real difficulty being finding the dragon scale needed for the fire. Then, in a low voice, I heard odd sounding words that seemed to be coming from the beast, though from where exactly I had no idea. When the sounds stopped, still utterly terrified, I could barely summon the courage to raise my hands and shoulders in an obvious state of confusion. I saw it's head tilt to the side a little and it's horrifying dark eyes somehow visibly narrowed. It was almost ten feet away, but with one step it closed the distance immediately and held out it's giant hand in front of my face. Flinching backwards a bit when it suddenly put forth one finger and reached to touch my head. The finger made contact with my left temple, and it was warm, almost hot. The sensation that followed was by far the most unsettling part yet, it was like when you're half asleep and you think you're falling, awakening in terror only to realize your still laying down. It was like that, but in slow motion and with the added twist of having the sensation of something trying to pull you from your body.

Lasting only a few long moments, the relief I felt when it pulled away was immeasurable. The monster took a half step back and raised it's hands to the sky, slowly lowering it's hands palm down, as if it were doing some kind of tai chai breathing exercise. Again, in a trance of complete fear, I was convinced it was going to cast some kind of spell and render untold destruction all around. It was odd though, cause no such spell came forth, and as strange as it was, it almost seemed to be shrinking. Suddenly the light bulb in my brain came on. It was getting smaller, but not only that, there were other curiosities happening at the same time. It's skin and eyes seemed to be getting lighter and it even looked as though it's eyes closer to the ear area were moving closer to where the more normally placed eyes were.

Right about when it was only about a foot taller than me was when things really started to get weird. The rear eyes got so close to the front ones, they were almost touching, until they were squeezed together and then suddenly merged. Things were starting to grow too, and it was quite unsettling. Hair was starting to grow out of the top of the head along with, what I was assuming was going to be, lips, ears, and a nose. It's chest seemed to be growing oddly too, as if it were becoming pregnant with two tiny, assumingly hideous creatures. Once it was my height it dawned on me what was happening, and I immediately looked away in embarrassment. How could I be so dumb, obviously it was changing into the form of a human woman. Furthermore, how ridiculous was it that I felt embarrassed at this particular moment.

Still looking away, I felt a light tapping on my shoulder. I turned to look over my shoulder very slowly, worried now that I would accidently see too much, stopping when I made eye contact with what turned out to be quite a lovely young woman. "Could I borrow your jacket dear? It seems people these days are quite modest, and I can't tell you how hungry I am right now."

Alright looks like it's all set up, all i need now is to drip a little of my blood. I hate this bit, why do they always need blood? My hands already look like chopping boards and I've only just started this magic stuff.
The wizard grabs his ceremonial dagger and stands in the centre of the room surrounded by markings of ancient runes. Candles surround the runes providing all but a dim light in the room. His hand trembles slightly as he raises the dagger to his hand preparing to swipe it against his palm. He takes a deep breath to compose himself; he goes to slice his hand but pulls away at the last moment. Sighing to himself he rummages into his pocket and pulls out a scripture.
“How much blood does it need? I can’t deal with another hand wound, it took like 2 weeks for it to heal enough to uhh… relieve my urges.” he scans through the page “Hmm… a few drops, that should be doable”.
He then stuffs the scripture back into his pocket, breaths in and places the tip of the dagger on his index finger. He pauses for a moment and shakes his head side to side slightly and moves it to the tip of his ring finger and starts to wince as he presses it in.
“Ahhhh.. stings like a bitch!” he curses through a grimace as the blood starts to draw for the wound. The dagger clanks as it is thrown to one side while the wizard gets down on his haunches and starts trying to massage the blood out of his finger.
“Just a few drops…” he mutters to himself as he manages to get one drop out”
WHOOSH the flames on the candles suddenly burn violently and grow to waist height. The wizard startled, falls backward narrowly avoiding a singed head and fights the tremble developing in his limb to get back on his feet. The ritual has started now, for better or for worse, the wind picks up forming a faint tornado in the centre of the circle sucking in the surrounding dust and air from the room.
The candles continue to burn brighter and brighter and the tornado continues to grow stronger and denser. Beads of sweat fall down the wizards flush face as the heat grows more intense and the air gets thinner. The flames start to get pulled into the centre and the heat becomes too intense, the wizard covers himself with his cloak and dives out of the circle. He rolls frantically making sure none of his cloak is burning then looks up in awe as the tornado and flames start to form the shape of a person.
The ritual reaches a crescendo and then the room falls in darkness and silence. The wizard laid there in silence unsure of what had just unfolded, had it worked? Had he brought his father back?
A small sizzle rings out and one of the candles reignites, the wizard reaches back into his pocket and unfolds the scripture. Another gentle sizzle rings out and two more candles reignite as the wizard checks the scripture.
“Resurrecting your oldest ancestor… Oldest?” Would that be Adam or Ev..”.
“It would be… if you were a human…” a haunting voice descends from the darkness
“I-if im not human, th th- then what am I?” the wizard shudders as he hears footsteps coming toward him and sees a growing figure through the candle light.
“You are a demon, and I am Lilith, mother of demons!” the figure proclaims as the faint light reveals her face.
“And we have work to do.”

im a smart boy. daddy always says so. i learned my shapes, and my numbers up through hundreanone!

I found a book! a hidden book (its a secret shh!) it told me that wizards could cast spells and make potions and shoot fire and prrrrrshhhh!

and I am a smart boy! i could be a wizard! i could make a potion! iknow where daddy keeps his potion Ingredience! i can mix 'em up nice and good, and then if I say these special words and wave my arms right (i can wave my arms real good!). i can tell its ready cause it starts smoking, like in the pikchurs!

and then I drink it up! and it burns like magic does (phwooosh!) and then I'm here! and it worked!

i missed you mommy! daddy said you had to go away last year after you lost all your pretty hair. but now im here! and we can get back to cheer daddy up for his birthday!

...why are you crying mommy? and what's that bright light?

I pushed my thick, curly bangs out of the way as I tied my long, mouse brown hair into a braid. A quick look in the mirror told me “good enough.” On such a painfully average day, nothing could happen, right? Well, incorrect! My name is Yuna, and I’m an apprentice to the greatest wizard in the land. I’m learning how to be a wizard. Because my family is quite well known, I’m able to get these kinds of opportunities. I’m extremely grateful for that. Anyway, back to the present! I arrived at the cottage, and closed the door. My master would always yell at me to close the door after I entered. “Mr. Canmore?” I called out. No reply. “Mr. Canmore?!” I called again, this time, louder. “Horus?!” he’d always hated when I’d use his first name. Still no reply. “He may be in his study” I thought. But the problem is, I’m not allowed in there. I always wondered why. Was there something he was hiding? But I couldn’t contain my curiosity today. He wasn’t here, after all. But if he was in his study, I’d be screwed. I decided to take the risk. As I opened the door, something hard fell and hit my head, and I fell to the ground. “Ouch!” I exclaimed. Looking at the object, I realized that it was a book. A hard cover book? Why was a book falling from the sky? I was still pissed about the fact that a flying book hit me on the head, but I opened it anyway. I soon started to regret it afterward. What if it was a test by Mr. Canmore? What if he used a spell to make it fly towards me to see if I was loyal enough to not go into the study? My mind spun with thoughts. But I was curious. And he was old. “He’ll forget in no time” I thought. I opened the book. It seemed to be old, with beat up pages and barely legible words. Words in…Latin? Latin isn’t spoken anymore. Luckily, I knew Latin. I looked through it and realized it was a spell book. I noticed a spell that caught my eye. I couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. Out of curiosity, I recited the spell. It was one phrase, repeated three times. “He will come back.” Suddenly, a large creature appeared. It growled at me, and I noticed it had sharp teeth. REALLY sharp teeth. I jumped back in fright, stumbling to the exit. I tripped over a table, and fell on the hard floor. I tried to get up, but the creature was strong. It loomed over me. It was tall and large! I backed away in a desperate attempt to live. But it sat up, as if it…recognized me? “Yuna Deamonne” it said, in a deep, firm voice. I gasped. It could talk? It seemed more…animal like. I was confused on why it was here, until I realized that the spell I cast summoned it. THAT’S what it meant by “He will return.” Looking back, that should’ve been obvious. “Master Deamonne.” Deamonne? That isn’t my last name. “You have brought me back. As repayment, I shall punish who has wronged you.”

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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