Task

A tall, lean man with porcelain-pale skin and eyes as crimson as glowing embers. Long black hair falls freely over his shoulders, with a thin braid tying back the left strand. A perpetual half-smile lingers on his lips, though it never reaches his gaze. He is dressed in a black Eastern robe with a stand-up collar, a silver ornament with a teardrop ruby adorning his chest. Long earrings with red-and-silver pendants hang from his ears, and the hilt of a ritual blade rests at his waist. He is the Archmage of Darkness, a cynic and a paranoid, accustomed to seeing enemies in every shadow and poison in every sip.

The ritual was torn apart — the sky above the altar cracked, and he was hurled through stardust. He landed on all fours in absolute darkness. The air here is dry, without a hint of magic — as if he had been locked in a stone sack. It smells of dust, foreign metal, and some kind of acrid chemical. To the right, something hums monotonously, resembling a mechanical golem, but soulless. The floor beneath his fingers is smooth, cold, and unnaturally level. By touch, he can discern soft edges nearby (a sofa? a chest?) and a hard, smooth wall. Somewhere below, a narrow strip of dim light breaks through — it looks like it's under a door, but it isn't magical; it's electrical. He hears footsteps behind it — heavy, unfamiliar. And not a single spark of power. This world is deaf, blind, and utterly alien.