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 otions, ancient spellbooks, vials, powders, pentagrams drawn on the floor… these are the things that are found in a typical mages’ study, but Relvinian was not a typical mage. He dabbled in arts so sinister, that the only title truly would be Necromancer.
Relvinian loved his study, macabre in its décor, in a way that suited him. He lovingly lingered over the dark leather furniture, and admired his prize.
The Ankh danced before his eyes, glinting a dark bronze in the candlelight. The dark master mage sat in a large leather chair with a glass in hand, the bottle on a table beside him, lost in his thoughts.
It calls the Avatar, said the thief, he thought, and yet… the Avatar came to British before… how to unlock the Avatar from this prison of talisman? What magic does British possess, that he can call the Avatar with this Ankh?
What would happen if I called the Avatar? Would he do my bidding, as he did for British?
The idea had merit. If the Avatar did the bidding of the one who held the Ankh, what would happen if he himself called the Avatar?
An army of orcs awaited his command. With the Avatar at his side, what would stop him?
Nothing.
A darkly evil grin twisted Relvinian’s lips.
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