Beginnings (Part1)

The others had been keeping their distance and had not said a word to him the whole night, not that any would likely provide any intelligent conversation had they bothered. No, he thinks, it would be his own mind that would have to suffice as the night's distraction until the storm let up and they started moving again. As far as Melrath was concerned, the storm could take its time.

Melratiue Fletcherson Tonitruanatus. That was the name he had been given. It had been ages since anyone had used it though. He had eventually simplified his given name to Melrath to keep up with local linguistic trends. Later, the name for his father, a simple fletcher supplying arrows to the local hunters and militia, had faded from use, just as his memories of the man himself. The village elders back then had told him that lightning had struck a tree near his parent's home just as he was born, a fact he very much doubted the accuracy of, and they had bequeathed him the spirit name Tonitruanatus, Thunderborn. That was a name he had truly come to like, and so it was that name which could be heard whispered amongst the rabble as he sat waiting in a cold dark room. Melrath Thunderborn.

But now? Now storms, such as the one raging outside the walls of the tiny room, were seen as ill omens. Many were afraid of the storm's primal power, or perhaps that hidden sins may be made bare from the deluge of cleansing rain. Those fears were what drove people into shelters like this, and those same fears were what made the others in this shelter keep their distance from Melrath. Like so much that had changed over the years it was just one more thing he had gotten used to. 

Exhaustion clawed at the edge of his vision and he allowed his heavy eyelids to drop. Images of the past began to swirl through his mind like the wind on the other side of the walls. "Where are your blessings now, huh?" He silently chides whatever gods might still be listening. Letting the sounds of the storm cloud his thoughts he yawns, the howling winds pushing him towards sleep."I guess even gods are not immune to the passing of time."

"Hurry up Mel-Rat, we aven't got all night," a short freckle faced boy chides from atop a grassy hill, the fading light of the sun behind him creates a silhouette of the boy's short messy hair blowing in the evening wind. Melrath stares up at his childhood friend, but is unable to make out his smiling face.

"I thought I told you not to call me that," he huffs, "and maybe I would move faster if you had bothered to tell me what was so important you felt the need for me to sneak out of evening studies?" He crests the top of the hill and almost doubles over. Resting his hands on his knees he catches his breath. Even though Melratiue was a year older and almost a head taller, his friend and neighbor, Orin Robertson Risusole, could always run circles around him, sometimes literally.

"What's the point of all that study if you never get outta the house?" Orin smirks as he turns his face into the setting sun, "I 'eard, from ol' Dura at the pub, that the neophytes from the temple o'er the hill will be at the river tonight for some big ceremony, ritual, thing. And I want to see what all the fuss is about. Lets go!" He begins down the hill towards the woods. Melratiue rolls his eyes and follows.

Dura Hintergaurd was the town drunk, at least according to the other adults. He always had a song to sing or story to tell, many of them fantastic tales of far off places, wild adventures, and a city under a mountain. But there were also many lurid stories and idle gossip from closer to home. People forget to guard their words if the only one around is a stumbling lush. If Orin received this tip from him, it was probably accurate, if not misleading.

"Never pegged you as the religious type. Which church has caught your attention? Or is it that you might be hoping to catch the eye of some young priestess-in-training?" He laughs as he follows down onto the overgrown game trail he and Orin used as a shortcut through the forest when they went swimming in the summer. 

"Wait a..." his eyes snap wide in a sudden realization and he sprints towards Orin as best he can. "Wait. A. Second!"

The younger boy slows down just enough for Melratiue to catch up and grab him by the shoulders. He leans in close with a half-whisper, half-yell,
"Hold on. This ceremony your taking us to watch, it's the hrensun-óg-iel* isn't it? D'you have any idea what they'll do to us if you're caught." His face must have been glowing red at that point because even in the cool air of the beginning of spring Mel could feel his cheeks burning. 

*[cleansing of virgin maidens]translated from Elven*

Orin burst out laughing, grabbing his sides and falling to his knees. Between gasps for air and fits of laughter he teases, "I, I wish you could have seen, tha, the look on your face!" 

With the jovial noise still echoing from the trees, the younger of the pair stands back up and wipes a tear from his eye. That wide, wistful smile covering his friend's freckled, worry-free face, would be an image Melrath would hold as a dear memory, in spite of the troubling years to come.

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THUMP THUMP THUMP 

The sound of an armored fist banging on the door pulls Melrath, and many of the other occupants of the room from their sleep. 

"Storm's let up. We're moving out, thirty minutes. Everyone get ready to move out!" 

Melrath fails to fight back a yawn as he slowly rises from his seat, "I guess memories and dreams will have to wait." He rubs his lower back and then stretches up his arms; not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement but far from the worst he had ever had. He lazily watches the others frantically moving about the room; gathering supplies, cleaning cots and footlockers, assisting each other with donning armor and occasionally shooting him a mixture of angry and admiring glances. Tall and lean, at about 210cm (6'10"), Melrath stood out, even compared to many of these soldiers. Pulling his long green cloak off of a nearby wall hook he makes his way towards the door. He draws the hood up over his short black hair, casting a shadow over youthful yet dignified features and sharp amber eyes.

Stepping outside into the morning sun, the muddy ground, and a veritable buzz of activity, he gives an impressed little hum as even more people rush about, striking camp with an impressive efficiency. Taking a few soggy steps off the now well trodden path, Melrath keeps out of the way as he watches everyone, both soldiers and support staff, performing their assigned tasks with drilled efficiency before they head down the path to the far side of the hill which overlooked the meadow they chose to camp in. There was a variety of different uniforms and armor styles being used and many individuals spoke with accents distinct to their distant homelands. 

One staffer, a short, dark skinned young woman with glasses and carrying a large mud covered leather case topped with a list of the camp's various tents and cabins, brushes past Melrath towards the door he had just passed through. 

After placing the box down on a, mostly, dry spot of grass beside her, she opens the door and rapidly scans the interior of the room, her head making subtle movements as she assesses the state of the interior. The room now empty, she seems satisfied with what she sees, lets the door swing closed and makes a mark on the parchment. Stepping to the side of the door she calls out, "Infantry cabin 8 clear! It's all yours Lieutenant." 

A tall broad-shouldered man in an officer's uniform approaches out of the crowd. Melrath could see by the purple and gold emblem on the man's chest he was a military hedge-wizard. A novice magic user typically self trained in the use of a limited selection of tricks and spells specific to their role or job. Likely a minor noble, or a commoner born with natural magic ability, that lacked the aptitude, time, or funds to pursue further education in arcane arts.
Well, he conceded, calling them a novice was rather unfair as the effort needed to get to this point was far from trivial and their specializations made the spells they used seem almost effortless. The corner of Melrath's lip curls up into an almost imperceptible smile as he watches closely, "Excellent, I always did like watching this part."

As the lieutenant approaches the door they pull a small ornate key from a pouch at their side. Placing the key in the door with his right hand and making intricate yet subtle gestures with his left, there is a pulse of light from the building. Those untrained in magic would likely not notice it but a tiny amount of the same light pulsed from the Lieutenant's body as well. The key is turned a quarter clockwise and the hedge-wizard recites a simple incantation, in this case four almost unintelligible syllables of the arcane tongue repeated three times. With the incantation finished the key is quickly twisted a half-turn anti clockwise and the pulse intensifies for a brief moment before…

 <Pop!>

In a moment the building shrinks down to a stone cube no bigger than 10cm a side, before dropping down onto the flattened grass below it. Letting out a long breath and blinking for the first time since he started the process, the Lieutenant walks over and picks up the cube and then hands it over, "Here you are Ms. Cross. Shall we move on to the next one?" His voice was kind and firm but carried a bit of fatigue, he had likely been performing this ritual all morning and the extended use of magic could be taxing on even the most experienced of mages. His supporter, Miss Cross evidently, takes the reduced cabin and places it in the case, then with a pleasant smile salutes, "Yes, sir."

Melrath lips pull into a thin smile as the pair walks away towards the next cabin. It seems his second guess regarding the Lieutenant's origin was more likely. Not only did this officer directly address the support staff and was getting his boots dirty, his aura was radiating with an off-white, almost wheat coloured hue when interacting with ethereal threads of magic. All signs that he had a more humble upbringing. One that was close with nature and familiar with hard work rather than one tainted by privilege.
Although, Melrath had to admit, this would all be simple conjecture, as his theories about the nature of magic and its relationship with the physical and intangible qualities of people had been largely ignored, ridiculed, and forgotten. Either way, he had hope that the Lieutenant would survive the coming conflict. 

"That is why they asked me to come along I suppose. Can't wait to hear the, "I told you so" on that one." Chuckling he turns to face the large tent up on the hill overlooking the camp. He sighs and his face sours, "Hmm best I head over and-" He reaches down to the satchel he thought he had been carrying at his side. "Well shit." It seems he had been so preoccupied with his observations of the others he may have forgotten his bag in the cabin.

"E-Excuse me. L-lord Melrath, sir?" A quiet voice from behind him halts his descent into the loathsome mood primed to consume his day. He turned to find its source was a petite, pale-skinned woman with long cream-coloured hair and bright, but very nervous looking, green eyes. She was not wearing one of the many military uniforms, but rather a simple common dress. She struggles to avoid eye contact as she holds up a large satchel in both hands. With a scant glance at the bag's markings Melrath recognises it as his own. "Y-you were gone when I awoke and I s-saw you had left without y-your bag. S-so I, I, uh," she stammers through the explanation, her hands trembling. 

"Oh, that's right." His eyes betray nothing as he comes to the realization that this woman was the reason he had slept in a chair that night.
Accepting the bag into his arms he smiles,"Thank you for returning this to me Ms," replaying the previous night's events in his head, he searches for her name. It had all seemed so trivial at the time, barely worth the cognitive resources to recall, and yet here he was. "Ravenstone. I do hope you slept well."

The look of shock on her face from the recognition was almost worth this entire awkward exchange. Her face brightened, "Y-yes, thank you sir. It was so kind of you to have lent me your bed when the rain started last night. It is a long enough walk from the city in fair weather, and I had feared the soldiers would have not been so generous." 

He raises a hand to stop her praise, "Please, think nothing of it. You seemed as though you needed the space more than I did." A cold gust of wind sweeps across the meadow, causing both Melrath and the young woman to flinch. The wind tussle her hair away from her face, revealing the tall pointed ears hidden by her long ivory tresses. She quickly covers them back up. Judging from the shape, Melrath could recognize that Ms. Ravenstone was, in fact, a half-elf. Progeny from a union between races was not uncommon but they were fairly rare in this area. And judging by her desire to hide her heritage it seemed as though the eastern regions were still somewhat unwelcoming to those considered as less than human.

Making no comment on the subject he breaks the momentary silence, "You should continue your journey home. I hope the remainder of your travels are swift and uneventful. And if I may make a suggestion." His face turns serious as he leans in close, locking his cold amber eyes with her own emerald orbs.
As he continues his voice drops its usual aristocratic drawl, "Take your family and get away from here. As soon as you can, go west in case the coming events turn out to be a grave mistake. Whether you end up in lands to the north or south, it doesn't matter. Just get out of here." 

Speechless and unable to maintain the intensity of Melrath's gaze, the lady backs away a few steps. She clenches her eyes closed before turning away and starting to walk away, in l the opposite direction of the remaining soldiers. Sensing his words may have been a touch harsh, he sighs and straightens up. Calling out to the young lady, "Ms. Ravenstone."
When she stops and looks back at him he makes a prayerful gesture with his left hand and attempts a genuine smile, "Go with peace. May the Divines watch over your travels." Her gentle smile seems to return for a moment just as she makes a slight bow and turns to continue towards the far edge of the meadow. 

None but the most observant practitioners of magic would have seen the pulse of pure white energy from his outstretched hand. The blowhards in the tent on the hill wouldn't approve of him using up spells this early in the day, but then again, they didn't need to know. 

After securing the strap of his satchel around his shoulder, he reaches down to the buckle, taps it and utters a single syllable of an arcane incantation. With a tiny click, the bag unlocks and Meltrath opens the flap. Reaching inside and rummaging around for a moment or two he seems to find what he was looking for. Withdrawing his hand he pulls out an eight foot long wooden staff. It was simple and straight, carved from yew, with a number of small runes etched along its length, and clearly much larger than one would expect to fit in the bag. Closing the bag the clasp clicks again. 

Then, staff in hand and an unenthusiastic sigh, Melrath steps onto the path up the hill.