Raw Chaos

The party reached the Mad Wizard’s tower at the bleeding edge of dawn, when the sky churned with streaks of emerald and molten gold. The tower spiralled into the heavens like a frozen bolt of violet lightning, its bricks shifting hue with every heartbeat—crimson, then indigo, then a shade of green that hurt to look at. Around its base, the air shimmered with illusions: dancing peacocks made of stained glass, a rain of neon feathers that dissolved before hitting the ground, and a door that refused to stay in one place. But they forced their way through—sword, spell, and grit.

At the summit, the Mad Wizard awaited, arms outstretched on a dais made of floating mirrors. His beard was aflame with cerulean fire, and his eyes whirled like kaleidoscopes gone mad. “You arrive at last,” he sang, voice harmonizing with itself in chords of lavender and static. “Shall we unmake the world together?”

Then he tore open his coat and from it burst raw chaos—a storm of colour and force. Ribbons of light lashed across the chamber, painting wounds into the stone. A cloud of coral butterflies became razors mid-flight. The ranger’s arrows grew wings and sang operas as they flew. Spells melted into colours—acidic orange, sorrowful blue, ecstatic gold—each one blooming into impossible shapes before splintering apart. The fighter’s armour turned to liquid mercury, flowing with the pulse of his fury. The cleric’s prayers echoed in vibrant, visible soundwaves that shattered illusions and bone alike.

They fought through the storm, breathless, bleeding, stained in brilliance. When the final blow fell—delivered not with a sword, but a whispered note on the bard’s flute—the tower collapsed in a wave of shimmering silence. As the dust settled, the sunrise returned to its proper palette. But something in the world had changed. Colour didn’t quite behave the same anymore.