Dalaran was an old city.
Founded by Mages, Outcasts, Outlaws, Wizards, Conjurers, Scribes and Adventurers, this small town soon began to form into a Trade City, with an abundance of the men of the Arcane trickling into it, continuously. For this, the Kings of Arathor gifted these lands to the mages, the descendant pupils of the 100 mages that had tipped the scales of War in the favor for Thoradin, first of Kings, in his War against the Amani.
Now, its long, marble spires stood proud, with egg-shaped roofs of purple, blue and green, with streets clean and tidy, stalls open and shops running, tavern flowing with song and joy, and towers of various Schools of the Arcane accepting many who are sensitive to the magic arts. One of these sensitives was a young, ambitious fellow, walking to his home. He wore the robes of an Adept within his School- Conjuration. It was a deep green, with lines of gold and highlights of blue-ish purple.
This man was known as Vasinius Kane, a son of a Noble of the Kane Estate, of Lordaeron. His eyes, blue and shining, sparkled in the moonlight of a full moon's midnight. His combed and cut-short chestnut hair waved about, bobbing as he marched down the cobble, his heeled boots clicking against the bricked stone. His face was stern, his teeth clenched behind his slightly stubbed mug, whiskers of small, brown hairs sticking out from around his mouth.
He cursed as he slightly tripped over a dislocated brick. A man standing on the sides chuckled, shutting up as the young mage sent him a piercing glare. Soon, the adept marched up stone steps and, with a wave of his hand and the glow of purple runes over the lock, it clicked open, and turned. He moved inside and closed it with a simple wave, runes once more appearing around the lock. A click resounded, and he breathed in, raising his hand again. Soon, the light of small flames flickered from his various candles.
Home sweet home, he thought, as he traversed his Home. In his other hand, he had been clutching a tome. Covered in fur and burlap, it was encased with two belts, crisscrossing it and keeping the cover over it. Vasinius moved it into both of his hands, as the fire of the chimney lit up again, and a broom started sweeping elsewhere. Keeping this all up was drawing concentration, but it would soon be over.
he sat down in a cushioned seat, holding the covered tome in his hands. He breathed through his nose, as he unbuckled one belt. He felt the sudden urge to stop. To not give into the interests that had first driven him to steal this from Master Tristan's private solar. He swallowed spit that had collected into a nervous, wet mouth, as he moved to unbuckle the last belt. He shut his eyes, as sweat began to appear on his brow. Then, sudden thump. He rose up from his seat, looking around.
He found the broom immobile, on the floor. He blinked, and sighed longingly, as he wafted a hand through his sweaty brow. "Dammit..." He cursed below his breath. He looked back down on the tome that had drawn his attention so. He shook his head and moved deeper into his home. Opening his door to his private chamber, he would come upon the sight he had collected.
For two years, the hidden books and tomes of his Master had interested him. He loved his master, but he seemed like an old fool for not seeing the obvious. His apprentice was stealing tomes of dozens from him. Tomes of witchcraft. Of summoning...
Tomes of forgotten, evil magic, that not even the elves dare speak of.
Such secrets enticed the ambitious, young wizard, so much so that he had begun reading them. Each tome was, up until this point, though, simple guides, rules, warnings. Useless to his greater endeavors. Each tome was like a small tease, a story of caution, showing him what could be, but snatching it away. He knew of the rituals... But what were the rituals? He knew of the demons, but what were they? He knew of the fel, but what was it? What could it do?
He breathed in, shakily, and looked at the tome in his hands. This. This was the answer. The other tomes were smaller, kinder to the eye. But as he unclasped the final belt, standing in the middle of the room and a rune, painted in purple ink under him, from the instructions of various tomes and snippets of information, he was in awe once more at seeing the tome before him.
A forgotten spellbook, banished, forbidden- against the law. Just by holding this as an adept, just by looking at it, meant his career and life in Dalaran would be over quicker than you could imagine. But no one was here. No accusing eye, no accusing words, no pointed fingers. There were no criminals. Only a boy, his curiosity, and a very damned book. And it was damn heavy. Giving his hands a rest, he knelt before the run under him and set the Grimoire down upon it.
Vasilian would then open it, slowly, as the old, slightly stiff pages, unfolded before his eyes. The text of the Arcane tongue, Thalassian, was written before him in vivid detail, scribbled as if in a hurry. Sketches. Pictures. Notes. First-hand accounts. A Grimoire for Summoning a -Demon-. A monster, a beast, an abomination of the Twisting Nether itself. It was a light-send to the young boy, as he stared upon the Sketch of a beast, resembling a dog, only its scales were red, its back like a porcupines needles, its face, void of anything but a long, boney, toothed mouth, slobbering through its millions of teeth. It stood upon four legs, as two more limbs hung above it, limp, but pointed with spear-like claws.
It both terrified and awed him. Such a thing existed, something he had not seen before. Forbidden to walk this Earth. He had to bring it to his side. He had to make it his. If he did this, his power with the Arcane arts, and no doubt his understanding of the dark side of it will be more immense than before! He smirked, and rose up, taking the Tome with him.
For almost an hour, he drilled over the basics and intricacies of the Summoning. Finally, he set the Grimoire in one hand. In his other hand, was a knife. he rose it above his head and spoke in the Arcane tongue.
"Servant of the Legion. Demon. Hear me and obey my calling. Your new master is calling for you. Obey my command. Meet me here, face me, and be bound by me! Accept my order, accept my challenge! Obey me, Demon of the Nether!" he yelled in Thalassian, as he looked down upon the Grimoire. The text began to grow a faint fel green. He smiled, his eyes shining in wonder, pure bliss. he set the Grimoire down on the floor before him and stepped forth, to the runes.
The purple was still there, but it would soon change. As he hung one hand over the rune, he took the knife and breathed. He swiftly cut the inside of his open, free palm, and cursed, but made a fist of the cut hand. Blood began to spill down upon the runed floor... And then, it began to boil. he continued the chant.
"Hear me, Demon! Smell my blood! Feast upon it! Hear its siren call! Obey me, and be before me!" he continued in the elven tongue. The runes glowed an eery green, as the blood fizzled. Its misty smoke rising up, and then turning into smoke of green, swirling about. He continued the chant, stepping back and raising his bloody hand.
"Demon! Hear me! Obey me! Obey me, now!" He screamed, with a wide grin, then, the candles around him began to flicker out, as the Green smoke slowly layed downward. The room was dark, apart from the eerily green smoke and the runes. Vasilian could hear his heart amidst the silence, as he stared at the smoke, resting above the runes like mist. Then, he heard whispers, screaming, gnawing, clawing and serenading into his ears and mind.
He frowned and groaned, balling his bloody fist harder, giving more blood up. Then, the candles flickered back, this time in big flames of green fire. He looked around, and as he did so, he looked once more upon the runes, where the mist began to grow. And growl.
from it manifested the creature he saw before in the sketches of the Grimoire. Its awesome mass was bigger than he expected, pushing a table from its forming mass as it appeared before him from Thin air. As the creature then turned his head to the Summoner, it growled.
And Vasilian smirked, scoffing.
"They don't teach you that at the University."