Azahr sat at the desk and ran his fingers over the page of the book in front of him. Involved as he had been with Cole, he'd not been giving it the time he should have been to complete the work for his brother. There had been some study given to enunciations and putting the translated pieces together in the right order but he just hadn't finished. With the house quiet and a renewed desire to finish, Azahr set himself to the task. Several pieces of the translation did not make a lot of sense but often times the more arcane of spells did not exactly make sense. He turned the page and found the place he needed.

A bit of apprehension fluttered in his chest. He couldn't identify why. This was what he'd been working for, to complete this work in memory of his brother. Finally, someone would be able to look at him and see that he finished something important. Maybe he could step out from under the shadow of his brother. Maybe his mother could be as proud of him as she was of her deceased first born. Azahr could only hope. He took a breath and forced down the nerves. What if he failed? Maybe that was why he was so nervous quite suddenly. If he failed, it would be just another thing he could not accomplish. His fingers toyed with the page. He hesitated. Just do it. The thought seemed to echo around him. The flutter of the curtains had to be a coincidence.

Azahr took a breath then steeled his resolve. He would do it. Azahr began reciting the incantations that would unlock the final spell in the book. Those practiced incantations rolled off his tongue, the ancient words mingling together with the magic of the book and the source of the power that Azahr touched when he healed. He could only use the power for healing himself but the energy that he used was the tip of the iceberg as it were to a greater magic that Azahr did not give thought. His eyes closed as he moved through the words, fingers resting lightly on the page.

He did not see the curtains fluttering harder. He did not notice the dimming of the natural light in the room. Azahr was not aware of the growing crackling of power. He continued through the recitation. At the culmination he paused. Tongue swiped over his lips. The final words uttered. A sigh.

The sigh did not come from Azahr but rather directly from the book in front of him. He felt it. It was a rush of power that left him, from his very core through his fingertips into the book. The draining was physically painful and he cried out. Ghostly hands that looked so much like his own seemed to coalesce around his, gripping his hands tightly. The struggle was brief, Azahr trying to lift his hands but somehow something kept him from moving for critical moments. When it was over, Azahr slumped forward then slid off the chair unconscious into a pile of delicate limbs.

He was not witness to the figure that flowed from the book with a roar of delight. Dark clouds and sparking energy flew around the room in a mini-hurricane upsetting books and papers and pictures on the walls. Things left askance from the turmoil of magics, it centered then in the room near the desk. A figure began to take form. It was tall, about six feet in height. It had red hair that fell in long straight locks down his back. It wore Azahr's clothing on its graceful body and when the magics finished the release, his face could clearly be seen. It had stolen the likeness of the one who had released him.

He stretched, relishing his new freedom. It came as a languid flow of limbs and popping of back as the body was fully brought to life. "Finally..." the voice was very much like the young elf that had struggled for months to learn the incantation that, to Azahr's understanding, would 'release the healer within.' Too bad the translation that he'd been operating under had been slightly skewed. Healer had been mistranslated. In reality the phrase was 'unlock the blight within.' The blight knelt down next to the unconscious Azahr, delicate fingers caressing the soft cheek tenderly. Touch. It was something that had been so missed during the imprisonment. The blight lifted his hand, the hand that was the mirror of Azahr's own slender fingered hand. The blight would have preferred a different form but this would suit for now as his mask. It would allow him to slip through the populace unnoticed for what he truly was. A cruel smile tugged at lips that some did not think were capable of such an expression.

A noise caught his attention, gray eyes flicked toward the door. Time to leave. He rose fluidly and moved to the door, edging it open to peer out. Movement. He hissed softly to himself. The blight did not wish to be seen; not here, not now, not yet. Thoughts of killing the one approaching flickered through his dark mind. Not yet. He moved to the window, pushed it open and slid out. He dropped to the ground with almost no sound in the landing. Head lifted as he stood, breathing in deeply the cool air. He would have to thank the young elf. No .. wait. He already had. The blight had not chosen to kill the one making the sounds within the house. Gift enough. He quickly moved away from the house, fading into the shadows.