1500 years after the fall of Selarune, the continent of Maghastt is still wracked in a bloody turmoil. The Age of Flickers is underway in earnest and though the city of Ashen took root in the crumbling echoes of Selarune, there is much to do and too little to do it. The Witch of the North and her counterpart, the Witch of the South, are embroiled in a bloody conflict that has threatened everything in between them. Though the fighting is hard, the land has changed much in these past 1000 years. Titans roam the land, heroes on either side of the war. Magic has twisted Maghastt into something else, into something new. Secrets and machinations lie behind newly made stones, the whispers of aether calling out to any who would listen.
In a different time, at a different place, a dilapidated church saw a visitor come in. She walks past the rotted, wooden pews, careful to avoid holes in the ground to a crumbling basement below. Rays of sunlight illuminated the cracked altar. It was fortuitous, in some ways, for the collapsed ceiling to allow the suns rays to hit the altar at most times throughout the day. She knelt in front of it, but her prayers did not reach the altar. Instead, she prayed to a set of six candles, three of which still lit no matter the weather.
She prayed to the first candle, the tallest and burning most brightly. This was to the Keeper of Space and Time, her hourglass keeping the world spinning. It is from her work that her children may survive.
She prayed to the second candle, the wick blackened and split into two. This was to the Ground and Air, their body providing nourishment to life.
She prayed to the third candle, silent and still. This was to the Peace, their dreams battered and broken when the skies did.
She prayed to the fourth candle, the fire burning odd and blue. This was to the Mysteries, brought upon by both phenomena unseen and magic unlearned.
She offered a silent wish to the fifth candle, the smallest of the sixth, yet stubbornly clinging to life. This was to the Spirit, his unyielding soul a bulwark against the dying gasp.
And to the sixth candle, her prayer was filled with rest and calm, for the candle was extinguished a little more than a few days ago. This was to one Unnamed, for their sacrifice has been forgotten.
When she finished her prayers, she revealed a seventh candle, black and cold. She placed it down and lit it herself. She did not pray for this candle, but still it demanded her respect. The fire flickered once, twice. Then, the as if someone blew on a feather, the fire faded. She waited until the tiny wisp of smoke disappeared before she pocketed the candle again. She treated it with absolute care, for the respects paid to the candle is then repaid to Death himself.
The visitor stood and dusted herself off. Bowing once to the church, then another to the altar, she left the church in the burning red light of the setting sun.