Thorain made his way through the long grass as swiftly as he could, keeping as close to the road as possible. It was night time but luckily the moon flew overhead at a sliver, terrible light for the bandits he knew patrolled these parts, but perfect for his elven eyes. Thorain couldn't really say that he'd explored, or even seen the stolen lands as he'd set out to do; to unearth the ancient elven ruins rumored to be hidden within their expanse. After a single day, he'd seen more danger than he knew he could handle, and so he made the decision to travel only by night, using his magic to protect him. He'd nearly been eaten by lizard folk, and slaughtered by bandits, but it was the troll that had been on his trail for a week that kept him moving, forcing him to travel as his predators, at night. Because of this, Thorain's grand adventure, his escape from the slave-like apprenticeship of the tower mages had turned into a terrible gamut of horror, every moment of every day in the stolen lands Thorain had feared for his life.
"What a great bunch of fun this turned out to be" he muttered to him self as he struggled through the thick grass. His side burned and his old wound, the giant spider bite on his side, was beginning to act up. All the magic in the elven kingdom's couldn't fix his body now, but the fear of death made him fight through the pain.
Before he could stop himself, a particularly knotted bunch of grass wrapped around his ankle and all at once, Thorain found himself face down on the ground. He hit his chin on a rock protruding through the thick grass, and felt the warmth of blood welling to the surface. "Better than where I was though." He conceded, spitting out the thick bladed grass that had somehow found it's way into his open mouth, the taste was earthy and fresh; the taste of hard earned freedom. Back in the city of Idara, Thorain had little to no freedom at all. Although elves were known for valuing the concept of freedom above nearly anything, especially their beloved queen Edasseril, it seemed that elven mages did not share in such qualities.
From the moment he had arrived at the academy, Thorain knew nothing but hardship. In order to learn the art of magic, and in his eyes it was most definitely an art, Thorain was made to scribe scrolls for mages, endlessly, copying entire volumes by hand for over ten years, and in that time, Thorain had barely been taught what he had come there to learn. He had seen other older and less talented mages ascend beyond him in that time and yet, he was stuck constantly perfecting his writing in over half a dozen tongues. He had taken the task to an art and had built quite a name for himself as the most talented calligrapher of his age in over a thousand years, and yet this did nothing to help his cause, for, Thorain was possessed of three faults which his people were keen to take note of.
First was youth: Thorain was the youngest apprentice of the tower in the history of it's existence, and unfortunately, in the eyes of the elves, youth and magic rarely go well together. When Thorain had stumbled exhausted to their door ten years ago, he had barely seen his hundredth winter. They had been forced to accept him because he had already taught himself magic, from the tome of a long dead wizard. That in it's self was unheard of.
Second, was ambition. Elven wizards took years to learn a single spell, not because they were incapable of learning at a faster rate, but because when one lives as long as an elf, one seeks perfection in everything they do, and from this perfection comes a betterment of self, and of society. Thorain received information veraciously. He learned at an alarming rate, and was able to achieve the same level of perfection in a tenth of the time it would take his peers, because of this he was looked at with trepidation, for ambition and magic can be a very dangerous combination.
The third fault was not his own, but rather a fault of his people. Thorain was possessed of a purple disfiguring scar from the level of his heart to the bottom of his left eye. From the right side, he was a beautiful elven youth, but when viewed on the left, his face was discolored with purple splotches and a drooping drooping eye and mouth resulting from a lack of muscular control. This was the remains of a spider bite he had received as a child. Thorain had been found in a spider's cocoon in a thicket of darkwood when he was only five years old. His adopted parents had though him an eagle, for the spiders of The Shudder Wood often eat eagles caught in their webs. Thus he had been named Thorain, “eagle” in elven. For this disfigurement some elves greatly disliked him. Perhaps because of their long years, elvish bodies are known to recover from the most grievous wounds and heal all scars barring the loss of a limb, elves look at disfigurement as shameful, for they must bare it for all eternity. Thorain felt little shame for his scarring wound. He remembered nothing before the day his parents found him, and knew no life before then. His scar had shaped him, while he wasn't able to run with the other elven children, he was forced to better himself in other ways, and so he honed his mind, or perhaps it honed it's self, but by the time he discovered written magic, he was ready to learn.
Because of these faults, Thorain found no true friends in the academy. He was forced to perform menial tasks until deemed ready by the council to advance in his studies and it was clear that advancement was years away. So, Thorain took his education into his own hands and fled.
Not only did he flee the city, he fled all of Kyonin. He left in search of ancient ruins in the river kingdoms of the stolen lands, but instead found only horrors and now he found himself face down in the grass in the middle of the night with a troll probably stalking him in the dark ready to eat him whole.
"What have I done?"
He lay his head down in defeat. There in the silence of the night, when he though he was at his wit's end fate dealt him a peculiar blow.
"Alright! Hands where I can see them!"
Bandits. He was caught face down in the dark by bandits. His life was forfeit.
"You! Git out of that wagon!"
What?
"Git down I say, an' no funny business."
Slowly, Thorain turned his head. In his misery, he hadn't noticed the wagon and it's company, or the bandits who had apparently been stalking them. There were five ruffians, armed with crossbows and poorly crafted swords holding crude torches to see in the light, save one man. All he had was a large axe, wicked and kept immaculately in spite of it's crude design. He stood there passively watching, Thorain knew he was their leader, and the cold look in his eyes told Thorain that these people had not long to live.
The poor waylaid travelers had no choice to comply and all Thorain could do was watch. The travelers were all older folk, save one young woman. He could feel the fear pulsating through her veins, and had no need to wonder why.
"Say that's a pretty lass you've got there, you, come here!" The woman turned white as a sheet. The bandit speaking had a crossbow leveled at her and beckoned with it for her to come nearer. "It's alright I aint gonna shoot you, just come here."
The woman stood her ground, defiantly. There was a proud look in her eye, steadfast, she would rather die. Seeing this the bandit barked "Fine then, have it your way!" and prepared to loose his crossbow's quarrel.
"Velithala Kivanuh Meh!" Rising to his feet, the words escaped Thorain's thin lipped mouth before he could censor them.
In an explosion, the bandit's crossbow warped and cracked, the quarrel was sent flying wildly to the side, shooting another bandit in the leg.
Suddenly all eyes were on him, the bandit closest to Thorain jumped back in supprise.
“Don't just stand there, git him!” The bandit with the broken crossbow drew his sword and pointed at Thorain gesticulating wildly.
The surprised bandit then charged up the slight incline toward Thorain. “Kaure” the word for fear flew from Thorain's lips in desperation. The man running toward him let loose a terrified scream and stumbled back down the hill, fleeing the diminutive elf.
Feeling the magic flow through his words and gestures, Thorain felt suddenly empowered. He had only one spell left before the lines of magic would be lost to him in a delirium of power. So, he made a gamble. The man with the axe stepped forward. Raising the weapon aloft, he cried out, “Bloodclaws! Fear not a single elf! I, Hrangor will show you the meaning of blood, and we shall all drink tonight!”
“Belor!” the magic word for friend, with a gesture, he sent his magic, probing into the mind of the bandit leader. Weak, all bandits seemed to have weak minds, good for him. “Hrangor, how dare you attack me! It is I, Shroudfang, I saved your life you insolent bastard!” Thorain had never been a good liar, he just hoped that this worked.
“You did?” the bandit stopped dead in his tracks. “So, you must have, Shroudfang!” The burly bandit continued up the hill and enveloped Thorain in a troll like hug. He smelt about as good as one too. “How are you friend?”
“I am well Hrangor, but worried, there is a troll on my tail, a brute of a beast can you help me? These wagoneers are supposed to be under my protection.” Thorain had always been a terrible liar, he supposed this marked the end of his short, ill-conducted life.
“For you my friend, anything.” the man then lifted his axe aloft, “Hrangor Trollslayer and the Bloodclaws shall find glory tonight!” The rest of the band was as confused as Thorain, but, they did as he said and in moments were gone, leaving Thorain and the small group of wagoners alone in the night with the city of Restov close at hand.
This was only the beginning of Thorain's search for freedom, but he felt it had just taken a very different turn.
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