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| - Tralin swum in the sea of his mind, the effects of the poisonous potion in his blood subverting his body’s attempts to heal, demanding all of his energy being used to restore his magical fiber. The Metanoia sought to consume him and Tralin was finding resistance extremely difficult. He has spent himself on his effort beyond fully; he had not rested, he had not done anything, his mind had become all. Tralin felt himself dying and knew fully that Myr had been correct; he wondered then if it were worth it. Draynor's killers still lived and this strike against the stragglers in the Devourer's army would not serve to truly dissuade them in the long term. Tralin felt regret, regret that he had not chosen to act sooner, regret that he would not see his children grow, regret that as T'palo he would never reenter his home in glory. Tralin felt regret but the pain was possessed of marked clarity. Even in his dying, the Metanoia did its work, consuming his body in favor of his mind. Tralin mused over what using his magic to heal himself directly would do. That cycle had been attempted. He dismissed it, though; he could foresee the results all too well. No conversion of energy was completely efficient, so he would suffer a double loss and die even more quickly. What life force he gained would quickly flee and more besides to replenish his energy under the demands of the Metanoia. Tralin had used the potions on many previous occasions. A large body of the School of Thought used them during intense research into cooperative magic, but this had been different. Tralin had used them to circumvent his body into allowing the most powerful magics to be wielded again and again. Even if physically intact, he might die from the mental strain alone, but he was far from physically intact after his efforts. Finally, in peace, Tralin accepted that he was to die. He trusted that his men would know enough to have Myr sanctify him, not that he expected the Brilhado to return quickly. This musing of the Brilhado filled him with a sense of dread; he felt then the touch of the Uncreator, his probing grasp. The Devourer wanted him, meant to take him personally, sanctified or not. Tralin turned then and saw Draynor, who stood beside him and smiled. He was lead then to a great stone hall where men stood around him. At the center stood a figure of enigma; while Tralin watched, his form shifted and he could no fix on him. Drakel, undead, handsome human, demon; even in his most hideous forms, the man maintained a figure of great beauty and of great evil. Tralin knew him at once as the Devourer. "Come to me, Drakel," the Uncreator ordered, and absently Tralin followed his command. "You have cost me much, Drakel, and in exchange, I will gladly except your own unique service to my cause." "I think not," a melodic voice answered from the table. "I have never surrendered his contract, though I have not held him as I held his family, I shall not surrender it to you, The'Galin." "Melaris, you fool. You cannot resist me. When he dies, he is mine and he is dying. You cannot save him, you cannot claim his soul as his soul is already in my thrall. A thrall it entered when he was so consumed as to lose all focus and give his life for an empty cause. I am, after all, the lord of empty causes and meaningless sacrifices." "He cannot, perhaps," a new voice added, at once feminine and masculine. While Tralin had no trouble seeing that the Water Lord and the Uncreator were decidedly male in aspect, he was unable to make such an assessment here. Rather, full of life, this one seemed to shift. Of the others, Tralin could pick out the Earth and Light Lords as definitively possessing female forms, but the Fire and Ice Lords wore amorphous elemental forms that denied all humanoid assessment. Who was this new voice? Certainly not the Darkness Lord. No, Tralin was sure not. The Darkness Lord was not here. "Lorithia, you claim him yourself?" the Water Lord, the one who had been called Melaris, asked. "If so, then I release his debt to you in full." "We are grateful, Calera," the voice echoed in the halls of Tralin's battered but extremely alert mind. Was his name Calera or was it Melaris, were they names or titles? "Both and neither," Lorithia echoed in his mind, his thoughts filling him. "This one is mine, Brother; he has always been mine. He has served me since conception though he knew me not at all. Return to the world, Tralin, King of Deren, your time and trial are not done there. Hold on..."
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