The Last Word of a Forgotten Sage
In the ancient city of Avonlore, lived an old sage named Marthur. He was renowned not just for his wisdom but something far more mysterious - he was believed to have the power of prophecy.
Marthur resided in an ancient mansion shrouded in nature, its cobblestone pathways traced like fine lacework through the wild gardens, leading way to a mansion of fading beauty. Yet, it held an allure that invited both awe and fear in equal measures.
Marthur was adored, respected, and revered by the town because he would help them foresee dangers, advise on important matters, and prophesy about the city's future. The curiosity about his last prophecy before his demise was immense among people. It, however, remained a mystery for a long time.
One evening, the sun was sinking beneath the cloak of ashen clouds. The air was thick with humidity and looming anticipation. The city's reeve, strong and powerful, Arthwright, burly as the ancient oak trees that lined Avonlore's boundaries, carefully treaded the sage's winding path. He was to become the bearer of the last prophecy of Marthur, unbeknownst to him at the time.
Arthwright was a practical man, having achieved his position through sheer grit and resilience. But even he couldn't help but shiver in apprehension as he knocked on the ancient carved door.
His knock echoed in the silent night, vibrating off the mansion's mossy stones.
The door creaked open, and Marthur, frail and hunched, stood there. His milky eyes reflecting the scant moonlight, seeming to sparkle with an eerie brilliance. Nodding towards the reeve, he motioned him inside.
Inside the mansion, an array of shelves filled with ancient scrolls, dusty books, and peculiar artifacts surrounded them. A single window filtered moonlight into the room, highlighting the dust particles suspended in the air, as if they were whispering about the room's numerous untold tales.
In the heart of the room, there stood a table crowded with parchments, quills, and a single half-burnt candle. Marthur inched towards it with difficulty, then took a deep breath before glancing at the reeve with a look that suggested a terrible burden.
'I am to meet my maker soon,' he rasped, his voice echoing in the silence of the room. 'However, there is one final prophecy I must share.'
He splayed a parchment, taking Arthwright's sturdy hand in his frail one, he began to inscribe onto it using a quill dipped in ink as black as night. The secrets of Avonlore's fate unfurling with every stroke of the pen.
Arthwright watched, captivated. Marthur, finally burdened by his age, breathed his last, leaving behind a legacy, a prophecy that was now at the discretion of the reeve.
With Marthur's demise, the town mourned. Arthwright, now a custodian of a prophecy that held the fate of his city, understood the gravity of his responsibility. He knew he had to honor Marthur's final words and work towards the greater good of Avonlore.
Years later, after overcoming trepidations and trials, sharing and applying the prophecy when needed, Arthwright stood tall looking at the prosperous Avonlore. He met his gaze with the portrait of the late sage, giving him a nod of acknowledgement and gratitude.
'The prophecy has been fulfilled, old friend,' he murmured. 'Avonlore is safe.'
Deep in the heart of the now vibrant city of Avonlore, the tale of the final prophecy of sage Marthur is passed down generations, revered as folklore. It serves as a constant reminder of their shared history, uniting them in triumph and tragedy.