Who: Fistandantilus (Possessed!Raistlin) and Maxwell Trevelyan What: Final wizard's duel for the Old Mage When: Today Where: Max's front yard Rating/Warnings Medium for magical violence Status: Complete!
The last several days had been interesting to say the least. The encounter with the pirate wench had not gone well, and the old mage was still fuming over that. But he’d had a little bit of fun to make up for it. For example, he’d put a curse on an annoying little -- what was the word used here? Troll? How quaint -- an annoying little troll from the forum Raistlin was a part of. It had been an utter stroke of luck to actually encounter him on the street. Now, every time the smartmouth spoke he was turned into some sort of creature for a few hours. A lizard for example. Or a beetle. Then he would revert back to a human. However, the moment he attempted to speak again, poof it was back to being a dumb animal again. Maybe this time a fish flopping around on the pavement.
Fistandantilus also had a run-in with another mage, this one wielding a power Fistandantilus hadn’t expected and had only heard about. It had been very interesting to witness and something Fistandantilus wanted to see more of, especially considering the enemies he was making for himself. It was frustrating that Raistlin had never gotten the chance to learn Blood Magic from Garrett Hawke. It was too late now, and perhaps that had been the point. Sneaky little bastard.
Fistandantilus hadn’t forgotten about the notebook, either. That journal Raistlin had kept full of notes about him. By now the pirate had surely gotten rid of it. Passed it on to someone more powerful to protect it. The bitch was many things, but even Fistandantilus had to admit that a dullard was not one of them. Fistandantilus planned on visiting her again and this time not letting her have the opportunity to even fight back.
First, however, Fistandantilus had other matters to attend to first. Aside from the notebook, the one thing that legitimately gave the old mage cause to worry was the necromancer. He had not encountered Maxwell Trevelyan yet, and despite his last ambush being a near disaster, Fistandantilus did not want to simply wait for the man to show up. He knew where the man lived, he’d invited Raistlin in countless of times.
If there was a possessed mage running amuck (and Maker’s balls, Max had certainly seen his fair share of those before - mages in Thedas practically lit up with signs saying ‘possess me, please’ as part of their ‘gift’), it really wasn’t that difficult to hear about it. Or find the action. Especially helpful when the action came to you - he knew what had happened with Isabela at The Hanged Man, since Hawke stopped by to pick up a few healing potions (she needed something stronger for fractured bones, something more than elfroot - he’d crafted a mist that seemed to do the trick) after the fact. Then there was the issue with Maia and, well, while Max didn’t really understand why she hadn’t said anything about that pesky ‘taint’ problem he still believed that dealing with a possessed wizard was the last thing she needed at the moment.
So, he’d put a stop to this right now. And you can bet he was wearing his lyrium-infused prosthetic; the arm thrummed with its energy, its strengthened connection to the Fade. He also took the Wrath of Lovias, his staff best for channeling winter magic - though it was a conduit for all magic pulled from the Fade.
It depended on how Raistlin was possessed, but to Trevelyan it seemed like the entity was already within the host body. That meant he couldn’t go to the Fade and battle the demon there - it was a matter of extracting it in the here and now. Without killing Raistlin, mind you.
“Having fun?” he asked when he exited the house; his good hand grabbed the staff from its holder, brought it down and around in a twist with the bottom touching the ground - which illuminated in a circle of light around his home, barricading the place from any harm. Try and set it on fire, Fisty. Try.
The Inquisitor did know his craft. And he’d seen himself through a battle with Corypheus, who believed himself to be a God (he was mistaken; they all were. That was always the downfall of people like this).
Fistandantilus watched Trevelyan exit his house and set up a barrier around it. That was fine. It wasn’t the house that the old mage was concerned with. The necromancer had a staff. Well, wasn’t that interesting, so did Fistandantilus. Technically it was Raistlin’s...well, technically it was Magius’s staff. But who was paying attention to semantics like that?
Hourglass eyes raised to meet Trevelyan’s. “I’ve been having a bit of fun,” he answered in a voice that was Raistlin’s, but at the same time was not. “I’m sure by now you’ve heard a few things.”
“Just a few,” Max responded, lifting an eyebrow. What, no grand displays of power here and now? No grandiose magical shitshows? Trevelyan was almost disappointed that this was the greeting. “Unfortunately, your fun must end. Is that why you came by, or..?”
He was so curious about the reasoning for tracking him down. And whatever that reason was, Max doubted it happened to be anything good. But he’d wait and hear the response before diving into his bag of tricks. The last time he truly got to unleash was during the alien invasion, fighting space creatures up top a Home Depot with Revy.
But if whatever was in Raistlin’s body wanted to see what a Necromancer could do, he’d surely get that demonstration and then some.
There would be time yet for grand displays of power. If Fistandantilus did so now, what would Trevelyan have to look forward to later? Long fingers wrapped around the smooth staff and allowed it to lean against his shoulder. Head tilted regarding the necromancer carefully. That arm was an unknown factor he didn’t like. There were no such things as prosthetics in the world Raistlin had Dreamed of, the world that had essentially created this creature that inhabited his body now. Fistandantilus did not like it, but it did fascinate him so. He wanted to study it, preferably without the rest of the body currently attached to it.
“Raistlin was rather fond of you, Trevelyan,” Fistandantilus said, his eyes moving from the arm up towards the Inquisitor’s face. Spell calculations already racing through his mind as he spoke, a hand moving towards his pocket to finger the Ice Stones and draw on their power. The air stilled, as if in anticipation for the storm yet to come. “You were quite nice to him. I’m curious. Did you feel the same about him? Do you feel the same way now that he is gone?”
Max shook his head, holding his staff over his shoulder, standing a ways away. “He’s not gone, he’s still there - you just silenced him for the time being,” the Inquisitor spoke firmly. Seeing this before, it wasn’t always possible to save the mages that had been taken over by something else entirely - sometimes, the most merciful thing you could do was end their life, end their suffering. But that would not be the case now; Raistlin was a friend, and Max wouldn’t give up on him - he’d been trying hard to open himself up to people. To see the good in them, to let them see the good in him. Trevelyan didn’t want that all to be thrown away because some demon had crossed realms and made itself at home.
“Of course I felt the same way about him. It’s why I’m here - to bring him back. Are you afraid I’ll succeed?”
He brought the staff around and down - where it struck the ground, a purple light exploded, the air around them changed and rippled, as if tilting off its own axis. And spirits of fear were unleashed, summoned from the Fade, the embodiment of negative human emotions and the feel of icy, liquid metal slithering through your veins.
Fear. Horror. Despair. Max wanted to know what Fistandantilus was afraid of - everyone had fears. Even Corypheus did, he’d called out to the Maker in his darkest hour. But the Maker hadn’t listened.
The chill didn’t bother the old mage. He was the embodiment of frigid cold. Fear, however, was an emotion he wasn’t particularly familiar with. The Fistandantilus of Krynn likely had fears. But this version, the version born of the Dreams had never experienced fear directly. He’d seen it in others. He’d even felt it vicariously through Raistlin the night he had taken him over. He had enjoyed the feeling when it had gripped Raistlin around the throat and pulled him backwards.
Chaos. War. Destruction. Death. Those were the things that Raistlin Majere feared. The things he constantly saw with his cursed eyes. They were the things that Fistandantilus currently used to keep the young mage trapped within. A nightmare of horrors on repeat.
Now it seemed as though Trevelyan had dug them out of the soul and was flinging them around the yard in a swirling storm of confusion. Fistandantilus didn’t fear any of those things. Chaos could be tamed. War could be beneficial. Destruction used to create. Death a mere pause.
The old mage felt the younger one cringe and writhe within him. He heard his screams of abject terror. They made him smile.
“Fear!” Fistandantilus scoffed. “What makes you think I fear you, Inquisitor?”
But then. There it was. A fear different than that of Raistlin. Emptiness. Being without existing. That was that the being calling himself Fistantandilus had been for so long and what he was loathed to return to. Imprisoned. Caged forever in a darkness so vast it never ended.
Fear leads to rage, and that rage surged forth. The staff swung around, the ball gripped tightly in a golden talon at the top glowed hot white. A wind spiraled and swirled out to disrupt the summoned spirits. Immediately after the staff came back around. A barrage of fiery missiles were hurled in Trevelyan’s direction, coupled with multiple explosions in a circle around him. Trap the source and kill it.
Aha - Trevelyan saw it, he felt it, and while an entity like Fistandantilus perhaps thrived off the fear of others, ate it for breakfast, he wasn’t without. He wanted to stay and he wanted to stay here - the thought that he’d be hurtling in an abyss toward nowhere, exorcised and forgotten, was quite potent.
“I think you might fear something,” Max grinned, gripping the Wrath of Lovias tighter - he swung it around and down, concentrating; though the shapeshifting magic he’d been taught wasn’t exactly pulled from the Fade. It was pulled from within, from the confines of a mage’s own mind - which made it different to learn than summoning the elements.
Fire scorched and sizzled, the missiles zinging through the air and there was a purple poof - where Max once stood was now a swarm of bees. The swarm that flew up rather than through the flames (the ‘swarm’ was particularly susceptible to fire, however, so he had to be careful) - up and then dive-bombing down, going for an attack with fierce stingers.
Sorry, Raistlin. This might leave a few marks when everything was all said and done, but Max would make sure he’d be fine.
Fistandantilus noted instantly that the bees avoided the fire. Well of course they did, and he could use that easily. At the last possible second before the swarm surrounded him, Raistlin’s body to burst into a towering flame. Fistandantilus in the center of the inferno appearing to vanish.
He reappeared a few feet away in a small flash of light. The Staff of Magius swung around and another word of magic was bellowed into the wind. From the top of the staff, a stream of fire erupted aimed straight for the swarm.
It was hazy, smoky, and heated. Another flash of purple light and there Max crouched - as he stood and coughed, the staff was twisted and twirled, behind his back and around. From it, shot cold, a wall of ice that blocked the stream of fire, erecting around him, a structure that was chilled and literally frozen solid. He could fight fire with fire if need be though (not exactly his first choice, since he didn’t quite want the neighborhood to be scorched to ash; it was dry enough in California for that to happen) - he could also fight fire with electricity.
Another twist of the staff, and he breathed in, cold air sucked into his lungs (the temperature around them in the general vicinity dropping rapidly) - and lightning was what he rained down. Pulled from the Fade, pulled from the Heavens - and dropped right on not-Raistlin’s head.
He just needed to stun him for a little bit. Enough time to get close and do what he needed to do to end this, finally.
Cold didn’t bother Fistandantilus. On Krynn he was known for practically freezing the ground he walked on. This creature inhabiting Raistlin wasn’t the real deal, but that barely mattered now. A little ice didn’t bother him. Lightening on the other hand, that was an entirely different matter.
Fistandantilus barely had enough time to summon and calculate the spell needed to ward himself before the crackling electric jolts hit him full force. There came a blood curdling scream coupled with the smell of singed cloth, hair and skin. When the blinding light finally faded, the man still stood, though leaning heavily on his staff, clothes burnt as black as the robes Raistlin had donned at the end of his Dreams.
He was breathing heavily. The Dreams had weakened Raistlin’s body, Fistandantilus had weakened it further in order to take it over. He was powerful with magic, but the gods of magic had seen it fit to put limitations on those who could wield such power. The limitations were that of the body and mind and with the recent lightning attack Raistlin’s body was about at it’s limit.
The body was starting to cough up blood. It glistened darkly on grimly tightened lips. Shoulders heaving, Fistandantilus raged at the Inquisitor. He raised his hands skyward and unleashed everything he had left on the Inquisitor. Thick fiery columns rained down from the sky to scorch the earth. But that wasn’t enough. Brilliant balls of concentrated magical energy were hurled at Trevelyan to limit his escape. He created multiple illusions of himself that appeared to surround the area. Each designed to explode when the other mage got too close.
Max knew he had to end this - he couldn’t hurt Raistlin’s body anymore. Removing what had possessed him wouldn’t matter if the man himself was dead. He felt a twinge of guilt for just about frying him to a crisp, and Trevelyan smelled the blood - no, he would end this.
Except it was difficult to even see - it felt like they were walking on hot coals, like walls of fire were closing in on them (which was likely the intent of good old Fistandantilus). Everywhere, Max could see the projectiles of magical energy, every which way - before one hit him, he cast Simulacrum, managing to bring the staff down and around from his back in another bright purple illumination.
The energy projectile struck him then, he hurtled backward, dizzy and spots dancing in front of his line of vision. But from where he lay on the ground, a spirit rose up - it was a spirit in his likeness, one comprised entirely of magic from the Fade and one that Max controlled. One that fought on his behalf.
Moving in a whirlwind of magic, tendrils of glowing energy, the spirit passed through Raistlin. The real Raistlin. With it, that spirit seized the darkness within him that was like sticky tar - and exorcised it from his body before passing through the other side, taking the evil with it. And disappearing.
Fistandantilus still fought. He saw what was coming and he knew what was in store for him. “No!” He shouted at the entity as it came towards him. “No!” He hurled everything he could at the entity. Missile after missile, fireball after fireball. But the magic was failing. Raistlin’s body was failing. And there was something else. All that fear had managed to pull the younger mage from within his prison. Fistandantilus could feel him, screaming and clawing and syphoning what was left of him. The old mage made the calculations, gripped the ice stones until his knuckles shook, but the power to transport himself simply would not come.
The entity that resembled the Inquisitor was upon him -- was through him. Fistandantilus fought to hang on, clawed at the injured body as if a physical grip could save him. It was useless, all done in vain. Fistandantilus of Orange County did not know, but just as Raistlin could not escape his fate, neither could the Old Mage.
There was one final scream shrill and loud, rattling the bones. It lingered on the wind even after the soul itself had been pulled out and passed through. The raining fire stopped, leaving only round scorch marks on Trevelyan’s lawn and the street in front of his house. The air was still and there was silence.
Raistlin was back in control. He was injured -- his body practically buzzing from electricity -- frail and weakened. He fell to his knees, the staff of Magius dropping to the ground next to him. Blood spewed from his lips and choked him.
Immediately Max was up, his ears ringing and he moved stiffly, but he was up all the same - he went to Raistlin and knelt beside him; there was a healing mist grenade on Trevelyan’s belt, and he quickly pulled the pin to let the cloud dissipate around them. “Just breathe, take a breath - you’re going to be fine,” he said, and the effects of the mist were such that they’d work right away (which was helpful).
“He’s gone,” Trevelyan added, sounding relieved. The renovated Dutch colonial house remained intact and undamaged, sure, but his lawn? Well. That might need some TLC in the not too distant future. Still, it could have been worse. Vaguely, he could hear the bog unicorn in his barn in the backyard, neighing and protesting - wanting in on the action, of course. Max would make sure to apologize to him with rotten apples later, for not being able to fight by the Inquisitor’s side.
Taking a breath of his own, he let the effects of the healing mist do its thing and settle over him as well. “Are you okay?” he asked, putting a hand on Raistlin’s shoulder and squeezing.
Raistlin was fighting to just breathe. Blood clogged his throat and he felt as though he was drowning in it. His lungs felt full and heavy, unable to take in a full breath no matter how hard or desperately he tried to breathe in. He reached up a shaking hand and long fingers grabbed a fist full of Max’s shirt and hung on, practically dragging the Inquisitor down onto the ground with him.
Finally he was able to suck in a thin line of air and along with it that healing mist and thank the gods it was fast acting. Raistlin coughed up a little more blood, before his lungs stopped their spasming and finally started to relax enough so that he didn’t feel as though he were trying to breath thick iron-ey water.
Hourglass eyes peered up at Max. They would have to be glamoured again and through them Max had the distinct appearance of a walking corpse, but at least he was real.. Raistlin’s grip on his shirt tightened as if to confirm that fact, and yes, he was very much solid and real. For the first time in much too long Raistlin didn’t feel as though his soul was crowded with a squatter. He didn’t feel that other lurking and slinking within him.
“You electrocuted me,” Raistlin wheezed between gasps. “Thank you.”
Max laughed - it was perhaps a bit manic (stress of the situation, and that the front lawn looked like it was hit by a giant fireball which wasn’t far from the truth), but oh well. A very Raistlin thing to say, with the typical dry humor, so he was back beyond the shadow of a doubt now. “Right, sorry about that. But...I get the sentiment, and you’re welcome. I’m just glad you’re here with us again.”
It had to be terrifying, being trapped in your own mind - screaming with no one to hear you. Raistlin wasn’t even able to make many decisions for himself, he didn’t have control of his own body. The very thought made Max shiver.
“I can take you to a doctor?” he offered. “These healing mists work wonders but so does modern medicine. Then I think you could do with some rest, my friend.”
It must have been the sudden and overwhelming sense of suddenly being free utterly and completely after being caged inside himself for a time that could not be counted, but may as well have been an eternity that made Raistlin join in Max’s outburst. It dissolved into another fit of coughing because, yeah, not ready for that quite yet, even if it been extremely necessary.
He let go of Max’s shirt to brace both hands against the ground as he coughed. Then once he was able to draw breath again he pushed himself up and backwards so that he was sitting while he caught his breath more properly. Then, and only then, did he see for himself the damage that had been done to Max’s property. Widened cursed eyes took it all in before again settling on the Inquisitor once more.
He had a lot to answer for. He owed Bela more than a simple apology, as he did Hawke, Regina and Maia and all the nameless people Fistandantilus had come up on the street. And Raistlin had allowed it all to happen. He’d opened the door and let in something that had no right existing.
He closed his eyes and lifted a hand to his head.
Max was saying something about going to a doctor. Raistlin opened his eyes and looked over at him. At first his expression was unnaturally readable and it clearly read confusion. After everything that he had allowed to happen, the man was still trying to help him. “A doctor, yes. I should probably see one.”
Maybe mistakes were made, but really, what else could they do now? There was no point in placing blame now, no point in anything besides getting out of here - Max would see this through, it was why he fought back against the evil that plagued a friend. It was just what friends did for each other. And he’d still want to help and be there, no matter what happened to his property. He didn’t give up on people easily.
“You definitely should,” he agreed, and slid an arm across Raistlin’s shoulders to help him to his feet, and give him something solid to use as a crutch. “I’m sure there are plenty of others wanting to know that you’re okay.”
There had to be a medical professional or two on the network, someone familiar with all this bullshit. For now, urgent care would work just fine. And, at least, the worst was over.