Appearance
Another Extraction
Tolvir's remaining voice torturously crawled its last few pleas of mercy as the mage's magic intensified. Thousands of glowing strands of brilliant blues raced within the labyrinth of wrinkles in his brain, surgically pillaging one hard-fought memory before seeking the next, careful to never disturb the vital components necessary for his survival. This was not the work of an amateur, and Tolvir's unravelling psyche would serve as further training among the countless other heroes whose egos dwarfed their capabilities.
His eyes darted helplessly around the cellar, unable to clearly discern anything of aid through the blindingly thick stream of cackling blues and whites. The only recognizable shape beyond the noise is the intrigued gaze of the mage responsible for what has distorted to feel like multiple lifetimes of agony. He leans forward closer to the shackled savior, angling his limply held wand for a more comfortable angle as another torrent of electric tendrils crash into his eye before attending their designated markers that could only be accurately mapped through centuries of administering similar fates. The mage's expression sharpened with interest following another movement of the wrist.
The inspiring eyes once a beacon of prosperity in the face of the wicked, now retreated to the back of his head as Tolvir's spiritual flame is smothered and silenced to a docile ember. The whites of his sclera buzzed with electric vigor for a brief moment before stabilizing into a window of usable information. Each memory manifesting as a fuzzy image briefly before being disassembled and replaced by the next. A moment of holy triumph over the hell-spawn tasked to collect the contractually owed souls of the desperate. An uneasy yet empathic speech to a father to resist the temptations of reanimating his now decaying reason to trudge forward another day. A narrowly eked victory of wooden swords as Tolvir's elated son boasts of having bested the village's greatest warrior to the applause of his mother, impressed with her husband's ability to act. Every defining moment, every lesson learned, every comforting thought is brought forward through the windows of his soul, and delivered to the intruding presence of the mage. The voyeurism is addictive.
Content with his findings, the mage pulls his arm back, averting the wand as the bright cobalt cellar returns to a dull torchlit amber. The murky air thins. Echoing screeches of the spell retire to a low pitch hum, then to a silence. Dusting off his cloak, the mage turns to his table in search of an appropriate container for such an accomplished mind. The dirty flask of a potion that's long expired will suffice. Carefully, he nears his wand to Tolvir's now soulless eyes. They dart around the unfamiliar cellar, incapable of making sense of the now alien incantation being cast upon him. After the incantation is finished, the mage pulls back his wand, and a stream of mana begins to float directly into the weathered flask. The radiant and electric blues now faded to a viscus tar that slowly engulfs the container.
"Tolvir. Tell me the name of your son."
His brows furrow in response to the unfamiliar sounds of even his own name. The mage takes a note of the date and attaches it to the flask.
"Lovely." He remarked in a neutral tone. "I'll have someone return you to your village in the morning." corking the flask and setting it back down on the table among several other disorganized glassware containing the essence of so many other legends.