10th Day of Summer, 513AV
Aoren entered his apartment quietly after a long day’s work at Stormhold Salves. He’d honed his craft as an apothecary under the watchful gaze of Mistress Sahfri Blackleaf from the early hours of the morning all the ways into the early evening. His work for the day however, wasn’t quite finished. With a tired sigh he ran both hands over his face before grabbing a candle he always kept by the door. He closed the door to his apartment then conjured a small amount of Res into the palm of his hand. With practiced ease he waved his hand over the wick of the candle while simultaneously igniting the outer most layer of the Res collected in his palm. The candlewick immediately caught fire casting illumination into the otherwise dim interior of Aoren’s home. Wandering over to his bed he stepped out of his boots allowing his bare feet to touch the cool stone floor of the interior of his living space. It was a sparsely decorated one room apartment but it had been home for Aoren for many years. Dropping his pack on his bed and resting his quarterstaff by the mantle of the fireplace he expanded the Res in his hand then cast a stream of fire into the pit lighting the wood piled there on fire. Once the fireplace was properly roaring Aoren allowed his Res to dissipate releasing his hold on his magic. He set the candle in his hand in a holder on the nearby table.
Aoren ran his hands over the worn wood of the trunk. It was hardly anything grand. Roughly carved and poorly shaped it did little more than store items in a convenient space. Aoren might as well have strewn his belongings about the floor of the room for all the protection it provided the items inside. Appearances were appearances though and Aoren hated not having a tidy living space. He lifted the lid of the trunk and retrieved what lay inside. In one hand he pulled out thick leather bound book that was stiff and still smelled of freshly tanned hide. It was obvious that the book had not been used for anything whatsoever. In the other hand he retrieved a vial of ink, a quill pen and a pouch of sand that he’d collected by the banks of the Avitar River. Taking those items he placed them on his small table then with a wave of his hand over the wick of a nearby candle illuminated the workspace he made for himself more clearly that it may burn brightly alongside its sister candle.
He seated himself at the table then stared into the flames for a moment. The young Drykas held up a palm before his face, his cobalt blue eyes zeroing in on the telltale mark of a Reimancer centered there. He brushed the tips of his fingers on his opposite hand over the scar. After seemingly staring off into space for a minute he shook himself out of his trance. Aoren situated himself on his seat more comfortably then settled in to start writing. He opened the cover of the blank book, picked up his quill, dipped it in ink then set to writing.
“Tenth day of the five-hundred and thirteenth Summer after the Valterrian.
It is said that Fire shapes the fate of all men. Then what of those who are not of mankind? What is it then that shapes their Fate? Is it blood? Is it power? It is a writhing ambition? Or is it simply the drive to survive? Whatever drives men and the other races of our broken world perhaps the answers might be found in these pages…if there is to be an answer at all?
I remember clearly the man who introduced me to the Great Art but as sharply as I remember him I remember even more clearly the agony such knowledge inflicted upon me. The reminder of which is forever etched into the skin of my palms. Were I a wiser man, perhaps I would have walked another path instead of that of a wizard if I had known then what I know now. That is all irrelevant though for here I sit, in a dusty room with dilapidated furniture in the epicenter of civilization in our ancient new world. Here I sit finally giving shape and form to the knowledge I have accumulated over my very long, young life.”
Aoren entered his apartment quietly after a long day’s work at Stormhold Salves. He’d honed his craft as an apothecary under the watchful gaze of Mistress Sahfri Blackleaf from the early hours of the morning all the ways into the early evening. His work for the day however, wasn’t quite finished. With a tired sigh he ran both hands over his face before grabbing a candle he always kept by the door. He closed the door to his apartment then conjured a small amount of Res into the palm of his hand. With practiced ease he waved his hand over the wick of the candle while simultaneously igniting the outer most layer of the Res collected in his palm. The candlewick immediately caught fire casting illumination into the otherwise dim interior of Aoren’s home. Wandering over to his bed he stepped out of his boots allowing his bare feet to touch the cool stone floor of the interior of his living space. It was a sparsely decorated one room apartment but it had been home for Aoren for many years. Dropping his pack on his bed and resting his quarterstaff by the mantle of the fireplace he expanded the Res in his hand then cast a stream of fire into the pit lighting the wood piled there on fire. Once the fireplace was properly roaring Aoren allowed his Res to dissipate releasing his hold on his magic. He set the candle in his hand in a holder on the nearby table.
Aoren ran his hands over the worn wood of the trunk. It was hardly anything grand. Roughly carved and poorly shaped it did little more than store items in a convenient space. Aoren might as well have strewn his belongings about the floor of the room for all the protection it provided the items inside. Appearances were appearances though and Aoren hated not having a tidy living space. He lifted the lid of the trunk and retrieved what lay inside. In one hand he pulled out thick leather bound book that was stiff and still smelled of freshly tanned hide. It was obvious that the book had not been used for anything whatsoever. In the other hand he retrieved a vial of ink, a quill pen and a pouch of sand that he’d collected by the banks of the Avitar River. Taking those items he placed them on his small table then with a wave of his hand over the wick of a nearby candle illuminated the workspace he made for himself more clearly that it may burn brightly alongside its sister candle.
He seated himself at the table then stared into the flames for a moment. The young Drykas held up a palm before his face, his cobalt blue eyes zeroing in on the telltale mark of a Reimancer centered there. He brushed the tips of his fingers on his opposite hand over the scar. After seemingly staring off into space for a minute he shook himself out of his trance. Aoren situated himself on his seat more comfortably then settled in to start writing. He opened the cover of the blank book, picked up his quill, dipped it in ink then set to writing.
“Tenth day of the five-hundred and thirteenth Summer after the Valterrian.
It is said that Fire shapes the fate of all men. Then what of those who are not of mankind? What is it then that shapes their Fate? Is it blood? Is it power? It is a writhing ambition? Or is it simply the drive to survive? Whatever drives men and the other races of our broken world perhaps the answers might be found in these pages…if there is to be an answer at all?
I remember clearly the man who introduced me to the Great Art but as sharply as I remember him I remember even more clearly the agony such knowledge inflicted upon me. The reminder of which is forever etched into the skin of my palms. Were I a wiser man, perhaps I would have walked another path instead of that of a wizard if I had known then what I know now. That is all irrelevant though for here I sit, in a dusty room with dilapidated furniture in the epicenter of civilization in our ancient new world. Here I sit finally giving shape and form to the knowledge I have accumulated over my very long, young life.”
