The First Mask

In the solar of his keep, Zariel stared at the slate in his hand, brushing a palm across the Elysium Runes as the drum of the rain rang through the walls. Lightning split the skies, drowning the shower of rain to fade beneath the thrum of water droplets. 

His fingers twitched, tracing the rune as he tried to recall what he could about Elysium. Some had called it the Fallen Heaven, said to have been molded by the gods above, but was rejected by its creator, later cast into the lower realms, or so the stories went. Zariel couldn't say if they were true, though he suspected that, like most stories, there was an element of truth to it. 

"What do you got there," Lupin's voice echoed, startling him. "A slate… Aeternus. Aha, Elysium, eh?" 

"You seem well-traveled," Zariel said, suspiciously. "Where did you study?"