Enchanter Uvlius of the Astral Plane
Chapter 1 - The Village in the Northern Salt Coast
Not all of the most powerful Wizards seek power. For some, power seeks them.
Our story begins in a quiet village on the northern edge of the Salt Coast, where a poor, unremarkable boy worked the vegetable fields to care for his ailing mother. His name was Uvlius. Back then, he was always wandering the village, his hands calloused from toil, his clothes threadbare, and his tangled hair full of dust from the fields.
Each day, Uvlius peddled vegetables in the village square, desperate to earn a few coins for his mother’s medicine. But life in the Salt Coast was cruel, and the villagers looked down on him—not just for his poverty, but for his lack of magic.
At twelve, every child in the village received a Rune, a mark of the magic they were destined to wield. It was a rite of passage, a moment of promise. Uvlius clung to hope, believing that when his Rune finally appeared, he could change everything. He could provide for his mother, earn respect, and rise above his meager existence.
But on the night of the Runic ceremony, hope abandoned him.
One by one, the other children’s Runes shimmered into existence—sparks of light, swirling glyphs, and radiant sigils illuminating their skin. They laughed, cheered, and rushed to carve their newfound power into their family doors.
Uvlius stood among them, waiting.
Nothing happened.
No Rune. No glimmer of potential. No whisper of magic.
The villagers barely noticed as the celebrations roared on, lanterns swaying in the warm night breeze, fireworks bursting above the rooftops. But Uvlius, head bowed, walked alone through the jubilant crowd, past the warm glow of the festivities, toward the one place that had always been his refuge-home.
As he stepped inside, silence swallowed him.
The laughter of the village faded into the distance, replaced by the familiar stillness of his tiny house. The darkness pressed in, heavier than usual, thick with something unseen. A feeling crawled over his skin, like a thousand tiny spiders skittering up his back.
“Mom?”
He took a step forward.
“Mom, I’m home…” His voice wavered. “I’m sorry—I didn’t get a Rune, but I promise I’ll work harder. I’ll grow twice as many vegetables.”
Silence.
The kind of silence that devoured sound, that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
“Mom?”
His fingers trembled as he struck a match. The first sputtered and died. Two left.
He tried again. The flame flickered to life, casting weak, trembling light onto the room.
Uvlius turned toward his mother’s bed. His breath caught.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate. He staggered back, clutching his chest as if he could hold in the grief threatening to spill from him. His mother lay still, colder than the rain now drumming against the roof.
There was no one left.
Outside, the storm raged. He didn’t care. He ran into the fields, blind with anguish. The soil that had once given him a meager livelihood became his enemy. He tore at it with his hands, his shovel, his fury. Vegetables lay discarded, trampled beneath his feet. He dug and dug, past exhaustion, past reason, until both the shovel and his spirit broke.
By morning, his mother was buried. Six small stones marked the grave. He stayed there all night, his eyes dry, his body numb. No one came. When the sun rose, Uvlius finally stood.
He knew what he had to do.
He had to leave.
Reaching into his pocket, he struck his last match and watched his tiny shack go up in flames.
The fire roared, reflecting in his hollow eyes.
No matches left.
Entered by: 0xe1E6…0d02 and preserved on chain (see transaction)
Enchanter Uvlius of the Astral Plane
Chapter 2 - The Moon, the Mage, & the Prophecy
A year had passed.
Uvlius had wandered far, eventually finding himself at the great Moon Temple. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter, and the monks allowed him to stay in exchange for labor. He spent his days scrubbing the temple floors, hauling water, and keeping the halls clean. It was honest work—work that kept his body strong and his mind too occupied to dwell on the past.
At night, he often sat on the temple steps, staring up at the endless sky. The moon bathed the temple in silver light, casting long, eerie shadows across the stone. But no matter how familiar the temple became, he never dared to explore its depths. He had heard stories—stories from wandering wizards about the ancient forces that still lurked within. And Uvlius, after all, was magicless in a world brimming with power.
The temple had few locals, but one always unsettled him. An old mage.
The mage never spoke to Uvlius. Not directly, at least. But he always watched. Sometimes, Uvlius caught him muttering—soft, unintelligible words whispered under his breath, repeated over and over. The first time, Uvlius brushed it off. The second time, he felt uneasy. By the third, he had learned to ignore it.
This was his life now. Wandering wizards came and went. The temple needed cleaning. The same stars filled the same sky. And the old mage muttered.
Until one night, everything changed.
Uvlius was drifting into sleep when something shifted in the air. A presence.
His eyes snapped open. He sat up, heart pounding, scanning the room. Nothing. No one. Just shadows stretching across the stone floor.
He exhaled. Just exhaustion, he told himself. His body ached from the day's labor. If something was out there, then so be it. It could have him.
Then, a voice.
Soft at first.
"Five... eight... four..."
Uvlius stirred.
"Five... eight... four..."
Louder now.
"Five. Eight. Four."
His eyes flew open.
The old mage stood before him, face blank, voice rising, the numbers spilling from his lips like a chant.
"FIVE-EIGHT-FOUR! FIVE-EIGHT-FOUR! FIVE-EIGHT-FOUR!"
Uvlius scrambled backward, his breath ragged. The mage’s eyes were vacant, his tone almost inhuman.
“W-what’s wrong with you?!” Uvlius stammered, his voice cracking with panic.
The chanting stopped.
For a moment, silence swallowed the room. Then, the old mage spoke.
His voice was different—clear, commanding.
--
"Five-eight-four. Five-eight-four. Five-eight-four. The lost and wandering wizard shall be aimless no more, But he must leave his haven Moon in search of more. A once powerless boy can become the greatest of all, If he collects all five gifts and prevents Runivere’s fall. A snail, a hat, a rune, a book, and cosmic attire— Collect these all, and Astral greatness will be granted for this boy to acquire. Five-eight-four. Five-eight-four. Five-eight-four. The prophecy has been spoken, boy. Will you put thy Rune on the door?"
--
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the old mage snapped back—his eyes refocused, his expression softened.
"Oh! Hello there, my boy," he said, his voice warm, as if nothing had happened. "What can I do for you?"
Uvlius’ pulse hammered in his ears. “What... what did that mean?” he asked, still breathless. “I don’t have a Rune.”
The mage frowned as if confused. Then, with a shrug, he muttered, "No Rune, huh? That’s too bad…”
And without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
But just before he vanished, he paused.
Over his shoulder, he said, almost casually—"I hear The Thorn are nice this time of year."
A tiny, barely noticeable smirk flickered across his lips. Then he was gone.
Uvlius sat frozen, his body numb, his mind racing.
He replayed the words over and over.
"Five-eight-four." "A snail, a hat, a book, a rune, and cosmic attire." "The prophecy has been spoken."
His exhaustion had vanished. His aching muscles forgotten. Something had changed.
The next morning, Uvlius searched for the old mage. He was nowhere to be found.
He asked the temple monks. They were puzzled—no one matching that description had ever lived there.
The rest of the day, unease sat heavy in Uvlius’ chest. Was he losing his mind? Had he dreamt it? No. It was too real. Too vivid.
For the first time in a year, he felt something stir inside him. A whisper of something unfamiliar.
Purpose.
He had to leave.
But where?
Then, a small voice echoed in his mind.
"The Thorn are nice this time of year."
Entered by: 0xe1E6…0d02
