Within one of these caverns, far from the watchful eyes of the sun-god brothers Aaryon and Larey, huddled the sad remains of a man. He sat in the far corner of the temple that would have been dedicated to Granyt, the Lord of Stone, had the temple ever been completed. His tattered remains of animal furs, sewn together with strips of catgut he had pulled himself, covered his delicate body. His naked skin, while in the open jet black, could not be told from the darkness that surrounded it. His long, slender fingers, now bare, once wore the royal seals of several kings, all of them dead. His hair, even still glistening silver with the luminescence his race was identified by, was long and matted and hung heavy upon his shoulders. Only his eyes, softly glowing orange, gave any hint of the great power and intelligence that inhabited this shell. Those eyes, many years ago, had seen the first of the Great Kingdoms fall at his hands. Then, people of all races- elves, dwarves, humans- all of them called him "Emporer," "Master," "Lord." And he had had a name. Zyn, he was called, Lord Emporer Zyn of the First Dawn of the New Age. Zyn the Darkling, Zyn the Dark Elf, Zyn the Conqueror, Zyn the Destroyer, Zyn the Mystic, Zyn Soulseller. Now he was Zyn the Mad, hated by all, displaced of all lands and nations, even of himself, for his magiks, cast through the years by permission of several demons, finally took its toll, raping from Zyn his mind and individuality, leaving him soulless and without wit or humor. In essence, he went insane.

His trackless wanderings led him north, into the mountains where he would not be spat upon or kicked or beaten, where he could be alone with what was left of himself. He fell crazed into a hunting pit, a frost fox still trying to survive at the bottom. Zyn killed the fox with his hands and teeth, tearing at the thick hide with his nails to skin the beast and attain the first of his motley furs. As he scrambled and clawed at the walls in his attempts to climb out, he dug through the dirt into what was left of a mine in one of the dwarven stone quarries from which the observatory stones were carved. He followed that mine, finding tools left millenia ago, and surfaced at the foot of Granite Lonetooth. He climbed the almost insurmountable remains of the path the elves and dwarves had meant to stand for an everlasting peace between them to the first of the labyrinthine temples he now called home, though his poor mind could no longer conceive of the notion. This place was safe from the snow beasts and weather and even the gods. That was what he understood. And he was more correct than he could know.

He stood then, and followed the wall to the place where the rough hewn stairs ascended to the flat platform. He left the relative safety of the wall, hands outstretched, and floundered in the dark for a moment until he reached the stone table in the center of the platform. There, he placed his latest trapping, a large rat from the deepest section of the mountain. With a crude knife he had fashioned from a dwarven pick, he skewered the squirming creature, pinning it to the surface of the rock slab. Something was different this time, though. He felt something, a presence, perhaps, if he had had a soul with which to perceive such things. The rat, twitching less and less with each rivulet of blood that stretched across the stone, suddenly burst into flames.

This startled Zyn and, due to his subterranean existance, nearly blinded him. He squinted at the flame, his mind slowly realizing that flame meant warmth and comfort. He ran to the fire as it began to smoulder on the rat's fur and placed one of his dried furs into the fire. It caught instantly and settled into a steady flame that might burn for several minutes if Zyn were lucky.

In the low light provided by the fire, Zyn looked for anything that would burn. He found several axes and picks in the center of the room, a no-man's land he had never dared to cross into for fear of falling into some pit or never finding the far side of the room. Picking these things up caused the rusted metals to crumble, but the wood, a well-preserved form of ironwood, was still sturdy after several thousand years. He placed two handles into the fire, hoping that at least one would catch that he might once again have light and heat.

The axe handles began to glow, then caught fire with an almost defiant burst, as if daring the darkness to put the flame out. Zyn felt a childlike excitement. His mind began to think- fire, fire, fire- and his fingers stretched out to hold it. His mind was too far gone to think of being burned. He had the fire; he wanted to hold it. As he grasped the burning ends, he felt his hand blister, but he held on even tighter. The pain was preferable to the silence and darkness. Then it became too much. He let go of the fire, of the axe, and began his dance of pain and joy as the blisters grew and the flame increased in size. To Zyn, it seemed the more pain he felt, the more light there was. He reached for the flame again. He touched it, the pain shot through his arm into his brain, and, yes, the flame got brighter. He made a pact with this flame in his mind- I will give you pain if you will give me light.

"But I can give you so much more."

Zyn spun, turning to face the noise, for he did not recognize it as a voice- it had been too long since he had spoken for him to remember the words immediately. As he looked, though, he saw only the darkness of the ruined temple around him, as it had always been, dark and silent. He turned back to the fire, to touch it again, to see if it would speak again. He grabbed the axe handles, one in each hand, and laid them on the altar, there, next to the rat and its burned blood lying in the altar bowl. For an instant, the fire burned low, almost going out, then immediately, the rat, the blood, the axe handles, the whole altar of stone caught fire with an evil green flame, dense black smoke bellowing up from the remains of the animal. Within the smoke were two sparks, red, floating, dancing hypnotically in the air. They caught Zyn's eyes and held them and Zyn stood in wonder, what was left of his mind slowly being drained. In moments he stood there, an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

The smoke rising from the fire, the smoke and the sparks, circled Zyn, testing him, testing his mind, testing his will, and with a final flare, the fire died, but the sparks remained, glowing in the air, and in the empty shell that was Zyn's mind echoed one phrase- And I shall give it to you in abundance.

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