Prelude

 A medium-sized room is visible. A single, pale, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling dimly illuminates half of the room. This half holds a small gunmetal desk with a small matching chair with a back but no arms along the wall opposite the shadowed wall. At the top of the wall to the right of the wall with the desk, a small, dark, barred window is illuminated frequently with faint flashes and a distant rumble can be heard accompanying each flash. On the desk is a single pen, the kind that ink has to be drawn into, perpendicular to the wall, a single halfway-filled inkwell, and a small, brown bound book with “JOURNAL” scratched on the front of it in neat, thin, slanted letters, parallel to the pen.
In the shadowed half of the room, a somewhat humanoid form is faintly outlined; sitting slumped against the dark wall. This form resembles a tall, muscular human, with long arms and small, round bulges on the shoulders. The figure is not moving, save for small, sharp movements near the chest; breathing.
A child’s voice can be heard faintly singing a song from old legends that no man remembers…

"When the Stars fall,
And hope is lost…
When we need One,
One with Power…"
The figure begins to stir.
"When life is given,
And life renewed…"
The figure starts to get up groggily, as if just waking from a deep, drunken stupor.
"The Call been sounded,
The Call been returned…"
The figure stands at its full height, with some apparent difficulty, and begins to cross the room.
"One will come,
One without…"
As the figure steps within the boundaries of the light, the bulb shatters, everything goes dark, and a great crashing can be heard.
"And appear as if Magic,
From a distant World."
Light floods the room and what appear to be soldiers in full armor, holding strange bulbous spears rush into the room, shouting. The figure is nowhere to be seen; the desk is overturned. The pen is snapped in half as a tall man dressed in full length crimson robes with silver trim, the same color as his long hair, steps in on it. His piercing purple eyes framed by thin slanted eyebrows and curving tattoos scan the room, starting to show faint signs of panic. He bends down and picks the inkwell up off of the floor, examining its now chipped and stained surface. Again he looks around, his searching becoming more frantic. He sinks to his knees, raises his face, twisted in outrage, and shouts to the Hevans, cursing what may be up There. The Journal is gone.