A seven-pointed star, carved deep into the residuum floor, encircled in glowing runes and laced with powerful spells. Artifacts of divine heritage at each point and a lone dead moth. Young and old mages of the Athenaeum chant mindlessly around the symbol’s border, heads bowed and eyes white.
The Ritual is nearly complete.

Seven figures, a myriad of forms, manifest over their Artifacts. The Tempest, beautiful and dangerous. The Broodsire, contemplative and poised. The Wyrmking, tranquil and magnificent. The Pale Hunter, exhausted but balanced. The Bloody Matron, casual and imposing. The Shadow Regent, a mysterious figure, unreadable. The Everfather, exhausted, infected, and distraught.
They listen, argue, then deliberate and respond.

Like mist burning away in the dawn, the Black Breath is stripped from this plane, hollow forests and blasted terrain in sunlight for the first time in five-hundred years. A Colossi draws a breath then collapses, flesh sifting off like dust in a breeze, leaving only its massive bones as memory.
The World is finally free.

Dragonriders of Masai

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