Archmagus System

Location: Scottish Highlands

Perspective: Robert MacCallum

Date: February 1st, 2035. Over a thousand years since the Warlock's slaughter.

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The Scottish Highlands stretched endlessly around me, rugged and unforgiving, their isolation offering no comfort. The crisp, earthy scent of damp moss mingled with the faint, metallic tang of the wind. Through the low whistle of the breeze and the silence between, it almost felt like the land was waiting—holding its breath for something unseen.

My Name is Robert MacCallum. I am an archeologist. No, not like Mr. Jones from those movies I am not allowed to directly name. Though, I have been known to say that artifacts belong in a museum. Usually. I sometimes wish my life was that exciting, but as I kneel here in the hard rocky soil of the Scottish Highlands, my ancestral homeland, I do let my mind wander to more interesting tales. I talk to myself, like I'm narrating my own story. Am I a little crazy? ... Well, probably. 

It passes the time from brushing away layers of soil, and tediously and carefully removing centuries of topsoil to find the treasures beneath. So here I kneel.

My knees ache from the career, but this dig site felt special.

This wasn't just another dig site to me—it was an obsession. Something about this place tugged at my thoughts, even when logic tried to quiet it. When reports of strange artifacts surfaced in this remote corner of Scotland, I had dropped everything to be here. The carvings on the stones were unlike anything I'd ever seen. 

Intricate spirals twisted into jagged, almost chaotic angles, defying the symmetry of traditional Celtic designs. These patterns felt alive, like they were more than art. A message. A warning. Something forgotten, yet urgent.

The cold bit at my neck as I crouched closer to examine one of the figures etched beneath a stylized wave. A lone woman stood, arms stretched wide, facing something immense. I traced the faint lines with gloved fingers, murmuring, "What are you trying to tell me?" The ground beneath my boots seemed to tremble, a faint pulse, like the earth itself wanted to answer. The sensation sent a chill down my spine, but I couldn't pull away. Not yet.

A sharp caw shattered the silence, pulling me from my thoughts. A raven perched on a nearby boulder, its glossy feathers almost blue against the gray sky. Its beady black eyes locked on me, unblinking. My grandmother's voice echoed in my mind, unbidden: "Ravens are messengers of the Morrigan, child. Watchers, waiting for the right moment." She'd told me those stories by the fire on stormy nights, her tone always low, grave. Back then, they were just tales. Now, with the raven's unrelenting stare, they felt like something more.

"Don't read into it," I muttered, shaking the thought away. But the bird didn't flinch or move. It just sat, silent and waiting, like it knew something I didn't.

"What do you make of it?" a gruff voice asked, startling me. I turned to see Hamish, trudging toward me. Mud clung to his boots and coat, and his ruddy face was pinched against the wind. Hamish was solid—more suited to wielding a hammer than brushing away centuries of dirt—but he had a knack for uncovering hidden layers. He gestured to the stone with one gloved hand. "Looks like decoration to me."

I shook my head. "It's more than decoration. These patterns—they're intentional. Purposeful. Almost like a warning."

"A warning?" Hamish crouched beside me, squinting at the carvings. "What kind of warning?"

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the figure beneath the wave. "I'm not sure yet. Just a gut feeling." My eyes flicked to the raven. It hadn't moved. "Something about this place… It's different."

Hamish snorted. "If they wanted to warn us, they could've written it in plain Gaelic. These squiggles look like something my grandkids would draw."

Despite myself, I smiled faintly. "It's more than just squiggles. Look at this figure here," I pointed to the lone woman. "She's standing beneath the wave, her arms outstretched. They wanted us to remember this. Maybe it's a message for the future. Or a memory they couldn't let die."

Hamish rubbed his chin. "A memory, huh? Sounds vague enough to be important. But I still say it's just some old scratches on a rock."

"The locals in Kilrain have stories," I said, ignoring his skepticism. "They call this place a 'thin place,' where the veil between worlds is weak."

Hamish frowned. "What does that even mean? You don't believe that rubbish, do you?"

"I believe there's more to this world than we understand. And places like this—" I gestured to the carvings, the landscape around us. "They're fragments of something bigger. Pieces of a puzzle we haven't solved yet."

Before Hamish could reply, the raven let out another sharp caw, louder this time. Its black eyes flicked between me and the carvings, almost like it understood. At the same moment, the faint pulse beneath my boots returned, stronger this time. A tremor.

The raven hopped closer, tilting its head like it was daring me to interpret its presence. Hamish waved a hand at it irritably. "Alright, bird, that's enough out of you!" He stepped forward, shooing it away. The raven fluttered out of reach, but not before snatching his hat and flying off with it.

"Oi! Give that back!" Hamish jogged after it, shouting. The bird dropped the hat just as Hamish reached the edge of the boulders, then soared into the trees, disappearing from sight.

A sudden gust of wind howled across the moor. The carvings on the stone shimmered, light shifting unnaturally over their surface. I blinked, certain my mind was playing tricks on me. "Did you see that?" I asked, but Hamish wasn't close enough to hear.

I leaned closer to the stone, pressing my hands firmly against its cold surface. The tremor beneath me grew, deep and resonant, like a massive gate grinding open. "What the hell?" Hamish's voice cut through the rising tension as he returned, hat in hand. His usual skepticism was gone, replaced by something else. Fear.

"I think it's waking up," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The earth rumbled again, louder this time, and I thought I saw the figure beneath the wave glow faintly, pulsing in time with the tremors.

The raven returned, landing on its perch and cawing angrily. It ruffled its feathers, glaring at us as if to say we had overstayed our welcome. Hamish muttered, "I really don't like that bird."

Neither did I. But as we made our way back to camp, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were standing on the edge of something monumental. The carvings, the tremors, the raven—it was all connected. And deep in my bones, I felt it.

Something was waking up. Lost in thought, and not sure how to react to the day's discovery, we ate in silence, and went to our drafty tents to sleep. 

The next morning dawned gray and misty over the Highlands, tendrils of fog curling over the hills like ancient specters. I stood alone at the dig site, my hands cupping a hot cup of Campfire brewed coffee. Hamish was back at camp, cataloging the day's uninspired finds, and for once, the quiet solitude felt like a reprieve. The stillness was heavy, as though the land itself was poised between breaths.

The vibrations from the previous day lingered in my thoughts like a warning yet to be deciphered. The raven's unblinking stare and the tremors beneath my boots haunted me, but it was the dream that had truly unsettled me. Figures cloaked in shadows chanted around a fire whose flames danced unnaturally, their movements hypnotic and alive. The carvings in my dream pulsed with light, the spirals shifting in ways that defied reality, and perched above it all was the raven. Always watching.

I shook myself, trying to dismiss the memory. Dreams, I reasoned, were just the mind's attempt to make sense of the day. Yet as I knelt beside the exposed stone and ran my fingers over the carvings, that faint pulse seemed to linger under my fingertips, a heartbeat connected to something far older than myself.

"You're just a rock," I muttered under my breath, but even as I said it, I didn't believe it. The patterns tugged at me, their presence almost magnetic. The desire for discovery—the kind that archaeologists fantasize about—held me firmly. I couldn't let it go. 

A sharp caw broke the silence, drawing my attention upward. "You again," I murmured, spotting the raven perched on a ridge, its black eyes gleaming with intent. This time, it wasn't alone. More ravens arrived, lining the rocks like an ominous council. Their stares were unrelenting, unblinking, and for the briefest moment, I wondered if they were judging me.

Before I could react, the flock took flight, their wings cutting through the mist in a burst of chaos. The sound of their departure left an eerie quiet in its wake, a silence that pressed against my ears.

Then, from behind, a voice rasped, "You tread on hallowed ground."

I turned sharply to find an old man emerging from the fog, his cloak tattered and his gait slow and purposeful. His beard was a wild mess of white, twigs, and brown leaves. His piercing hazel eyes seemed to cut straight through me. He leaned on a gnarled staff, the weight of years etched into his hunched frame.

"The stones remember," he said, his voice low but resonant. "The roots whisper. Why have you come?"

I straightened, trying to mask my unease. "Now what... What weird thing is going to happen next" I thought to myself, but I answered the man politely and directly. "I'm here to uncover history," I said. "To learn about the people who lived here—their stories, and their lives."

The old man studied me for a long moment. "And what will you do with their stories, seeker? Will you honor them, or will you exploit them?"

I met his gaze, my voice steady. "I'll honor them. That's why I'm here—to understand and preserve."

He nodded slowly, as though weighing my words. "The land watches you, and it does not forgive trespass lightly. You may pass, but know this: there is always a cost for taking what is not yours."

From the folds of his cloak, he pulled a small wooden token, its surface rough and carved with crude etchings. "Take this," he said, extending it toward me. "It will protect you. Respect the land, or face its wrath."

I hesitated, then took the token. It was warm, almost alive in my palm. "Thank you," I murmured, unsure how else to respond.

The old man's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he turned and disappeared back into the fog. The ravens let out a unified caw before scattering into the mist after him, leaving me alone with the cold chill of the wind.

That night, I lay awake in my tent, turning the token over in my hand. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, and the events of the day swirled in my mind. The dream, the tremors, the carvings, the old man—they felt connected in ways I couldn't yet piece together.

A soft whisper drifted through the tent, too faint to catch. I froze, straining to hear, but it faded into the night. My hand tightened around the token, its edges digging into my skin.

"This place is more than just a dig site," I muttered to myself. "It's a doorway—a thin place, like the locals said. Between here...and where though?"

Hamish's voice broke the silence as he entered the tent, his face weary but curious. "You've got that look again, professor. The one that says you're about to talk to rocks. What's got you this time?"

I smirked, though unease still lingered. "Something about this place feels... different. Like it's waiting for something—or someone."

Hamish raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, if the rocks start talking back, don't bother me. I'm not dealing with chatty stones before coffee."

I chuckled briefly, grateful for his short tempered sense of humor. But as Hamish settled into his cot, the raven's distant cry echoed through the night, chilling and mournful. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching. Waiting.

Whether I wanted to face it or not, I knew it was coming.

The lantern dimmed, and sleep eventually claimed me. My dreams were vivid—wings slicing through mist, landscapes shifting from vibrant to desolate, and ancient fires burning against the backdrop of shadows. I woke with a start, the token clutched in my hand. There was an unnatural chill in the air, and as my ears adjusted to the silence, I heard it—a quiet, deliberate step outside the tent.

I froze, gripping the token tighter. The sound was faint, but unmistakable. I reached for the lantern and flicked it on, the warm light chasing away the shadows. The flap of the tent swayed gently, as though someone—or something—had just passed through. My eyes darted to Hamish, who remained asleep, his snores unbroken by the disturbance.

"Who's there?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. The silence that followed was suffocating. But in my gut, I knew: whatever it was, it hadn't truly left.