Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) by G. Akella, Mark Berelekhis

"to whoever comes in my stead."
    "Farewell," Altus stepped toward the doors, turned around, eyeing a morose Kan, pensive Saverus and weeping Raena, and activated Oblivion. Casting a brief glance at the bodies settling on the slabs, Altus walked out of the vault, slamming shut the massive metal doors, brought the Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's signet to the crack between the doors and whispered several long phrases in a strange hissing tongue. A cool air washed over his face, as intricate weavings ran along the edges of the doors, closely resembling cobweb patterns of frost spiders. The archmage pocketed the signet ring, now radiating a small amount of heat, and rushed toward the exit.
    By the time Altus reached the open doors of the donjon, the lizard riders were already entering the fortress. He struck a quick combo of Icy Fan and Chain Lightning, and followed up by raising the rock shards littering the courtyard into the air and hurling them at the already thinning throng of riders. He considered the results of his efforts momentarily, noting with satisfaction that roughly twenty attackers, along with their dreadful mounts, were now lying motionless in the courtyard or blocking the breach in the wall. Easily repelling a pair of ice spears, the archmage slipped behind the wall and fled from the citadel via a random portal, covering his tracks with a dozen decoys.
     
    ***
     
    Archmage Altus was standing in the middle of a small canyon, looking up at the clouds above crawling quaintly in the sky, a light breeze tousling his gray hair. He was tired. There was no sense in running any longer. He wasn't going to escape his pursuers, not in their own lands. It had been twelve portals jumps—all of them futile, one giant waste of effort.
    A depression with smooth walls along the edges, and boulders clustered along the bottom. The slopes were lined with reddish limestone, underlying isles of shrubbery and trees that resembled pines. A small waterfalls splashed nearby. A lovely, picturesque place to make one's last stand. Altus threw out several more decoy traps, and proceeded to wait.             
    Not at all like Erantia, which is so far, far away now, he thought wistfully, looking up at the sky. Gods! Why did it have to happen this way? He wasn't afraid of death, but his team... How would they make it without him? He had never asked the gods for anything, deeming it unbecoming to distract higher beings from their work—unfathomable to mortal beings—with empty requests. There had been several instances throughout his life when he'd carried out some deity's will (and had been rewarded for it), but he had never asked for anything himself. But now, for the first time in his long life, he was begging for the chance to save his people and the knights of the Red Flame. As for him, he was sure that SHE was waiting for him—in a place that was destined for him—she could wait a little longer while he did his duty to the end.
    Memories flooded his mind, a mighty torrent sweeping him away—two hundred sixty years back in time...
     
    He stood apart from the buzzing crowd, cupping a glass of Kjenian Tear, gazing out of a huge arched window at the billowing steam. The royal graduation ball was in full swing in all its splendor. It all made for a silly sight—the festive ribbons on the young cadets and sackcloth-like garb on the Academy of Higher Magic graduates. He was irritated by the scurrying waiters and their trays, the scents of perfume, the smiling faces all around him.
    Ten years prior, at his own graduation ball, he had gotten shamelessly drunk, got into a scuffle with Duke Kerat's third son, breaking his face and singing his luxuriant hair, while himself losing three front teeth... and a favorable placement. And now, instead of the enormous Synala with its elven maidens and Rowass wine, he wound up in the small northern Port Vallidu, reeking of mold and codfish. He'd been averse to events such as this