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Darmon strikes off into the forest. As he tears through the
undergrowth, his eyes glow with an inner fire. His breath remains
steady, leaving his ash covered clothing as the only sign of the ordeal
he has just endured. Darmon is hunting.
Hunting for his attacker. Hunting for the truth. Hunting for
vengeance. As he tracks through the forest, small fires erupt and then
burn out in his footfalls. He has lost the last bit of control he once
had over his energies. There is only one focus in his mind now...
Continuing his march, spring's new growth seems to envelope him...
almost taunt him. New life abounds as flowers once again find their way
to the sun. Bright reds and oranges turn the forest into a patchwork of
beauty. However, the new life only reminds Darmon of his master's
death. It only strengthens his emotions towards the loss.
How had this happened??? In less than a second his whole life had been
shattered before his eyes! Everything he knew and the only person he
cared about were snatched away without a hint of warning.
But even worse, Darmon feels guilty. Garem had been his father, if not
by blood then by deed. He had shown him the inner workings of both
magic and conscience. And through all that, Darmon's last thoughts had
been of envy... of anger. He had been upset because his teacher could
so easily accomplish what Darmon thought impossible.
What diabolic forces drafted him this punishment? Why didn't they come
and slay him as they had his master? The only person he has ever known
in this world is gone. He is alone... He wants revenge... And now he
is hunting. Hunting for the one who sowed him these seeds of pain and
anguish...
Many miles away, a breeze is blowing through the forest. At least,
that would be the impression to the casual observer...
Siltran glides easily through the upper branches of the Llanowar. His
form is unseen and his progress silent. To the world around him, his
passing is as unnoticed as the rustling of leaves. His pace steadily
increases as he senses his goal.
Siltran still isn't sure exactly what role Darmon is to play is the
events to come. All he knows is the Elder sees something in him.
Siltran can't avoid the logic. After all, Garem did choose him
as an apprentice. Hopefully, this unseen talent would be enough. Being
naturally cautious, however, he's still far from confident.
Though still several miles away from the source, Siltran detects the
movement and sounds of a large number of people. Siltran gives a slight
smile, most likely undetectable to a human. After all, elven emotions
are expressed far differently than their human counterparts. To the
elves, a smile (actually rather uncommon compared to other facial
expressions) can signify a hundred different feelings. In this case,
however, he was indeed happy. Habitation meant a good chance of finding
the apprentice.
For the first time in his journey, Siltran takes the time to take in
the forest around him. He had seen it many times before. Spring in the
Llanowar was both a festive and memorable event. There was nothing in
Dominaria that could parallel its beauty and peaceful charm. It doesn't
really matter to him, though. Each spring signifies more than just
another season. It is the time of rebirth. A brief period where all is
right with the world.
Like in all parts of the great forest, the trees in the region that
Siltran is traversing grow tall and broad. Branches reach out sometimes
as far as twenty-five to thirty feet in either direction. The elves
have long since learned to take advantage of that characteristic for the
purposes of travel. Even now, Siltran springs from one to another and
then scrambles across to do it again. It is quick and silent. The
preferred elven mode of travel.
Along the shadowed surface of the forest, small plants and shrubs
struggle with one another to reach the all too rare patches of
sunlight. Many smother each other in the process of this winner takes
all competition. Yes, beauty in the Llanowar is only skin deep. The
real forest is a "take no prisoners" life and death battle. Only
the strong will survive to see spring's beauty again. With that thought
in mind, Siltran flies quickly towards the human settlement.
Darmon's eyes scream with fury. WHO??? Who had done this??? He
slowly shakes his head. Not even that crucial information mattered
anymore. He would know them when he saw them... he was sure of it.
Someone who could so easily destroy a mage such as Garem had to
stand out!!! He should be able to feel their aura from many yards away.
But why hadn't Garem felt them? Why didn't he shout a warning and
destroy his attackers? Instead, he had been cut down without a hint of
alarm. He didn't even seem to have noticed their presence...
Why? The question turns itself over and over in Darmon's head. Was
his foe really so powerful that it could walk undetected to even the
greatest of mages? Or was his enemy so weak that Garem didn't even give
it his attention? The latter obviously was not the case. The flames
that consumed his master also turned over an acre of woodland into ash.
Nothing had been spared. Not the flowers nor the trees nor the
squirrels. All were casualties in the assault.
Darmon's quick gate turns into a run. Far ahead he sees smoke rising
up above the trees. Perhaps it is the camp of the attackers. Could
they be assassins working for some vile sorcerer too cowardly to do his
own, dirty work? An aspiring adept, perhaps, that wished to prove
himself by destroying one of the greatest in his craft. But who is
capable of training such an apprentice, one so knowledgeable in the ways
of both stealth and destruction? Darmon means to find out.
Running on, Darmon finds his battered frame unable to keep up the
pace. The trees flying by on either side slow down to a moderate crawl
as he once again comes to a walk. Every muscle in his body is screaming
in pain, but Darmon forces himself to continue on. Needless to say, he
is sorely disappointed when he discovers the object of all his effort
was not a camp at all. As he breaks the tree-line, Darmon sights the
brush pile burning in the middle of a farmer's field. Beyond the field
lies a town, one Darmon recognizes from his childhood as Deersbrooke.
Dusting himself off, he stalks the rest of the way to the village that
holds his past... and now his future.
Darmon's eyes stand wide as he views the hustle and bustle of town
life. Never has he seen so many people! To his right, left, front and
back. Even up above him in windows people stand! All are shouting or
waving or running back and forth. The air is alive with their presence.
Darmon had seen nothing like it while deep in the woods under Garem's
care. In his constant quest to bring control into Darmon's habits and
magic, he had specifically denied leave from the cottage and its near
vicinity. For all intents and purposes, Darmon is a social child in a
land of giants. Intrigued by his new surroundings, Darmon directs
himself to the area of the most activity, a tavern known as the Greasy
Spoon...
Walking into the run-down establishment, Darmon is rather surprised by
the sudden turn of heads in his direction. All carry distasteful
looks. From behind a long counter, an older man takes all the
expressions from around the room and amplifies them ten times. Darmon
looks around uncomfortably.
"Hello..." is all Darmon manages to squeak out.
"What the hell are you doing in here, kid?" The blunt remark stems
from a grotesque figure slouched in the corner. In one hand he holds a
half empty glass of ale, in the other the wrist of an obviously
frightened barmaid. By the silence his voice creates, Darmon instantly
recognizes the man as trouble. Big trouble.
"I was just curious about..."
"What, you think you can just stroll in here and observe? Stupid kid!
Unless you are a man or..." he glances over at the maid still entrapped
by his grip, "a wench you have no business here!" His overly angry
oratory is culminated by hurling his mug at Darmon. The glass shatters
on the door frame behind the boy, narrowly missing his head.
Fear wells up inside of the young apprentice. As he stands there, the
fear turns into disbelief and the disbelief into anger. The anger
begins to swell into sudden wrath. He glances at the spot by the door
where the glass struck, and then turns his gaze back to the man in the
corner.
Nothing is said between the two as the man tries to discern the meaning
of the glare that is pointed in his direction. In fact, he is still
trying to figure out the young boy when he explodes in a wave of magical
flame...
The sound and fury of a deafening explosion rocks Siltran's narrow
perch on the sill of a window. Grasping tightly to the edge, he is
barely able to keep his balance as the tremor subsides. Just a few
buildings down, smoke and fire leap wildly from the shattered wreckage
of a tavern known as the Greasy Spoon. The street suddenly becomes a
mob of frightened people and screaming children. As the smoke spreads
across the street, the scene is slowly masked from Siltran's eyes. All
that is left is the sounds... the screams...
Darmon shakily walks out of the wreckage. Dear god? What had he
done??? In his sudden fury, how many lives had he laid forfeit? The
evil man, the patrons........ the innocent barmaid. What had he done...
He ponders this even as the townsfolk rush at him. No doubt they are
suspicious of what has happened. No doubt they know what he has done.
He silently faces the angry mob, quietly watching as rocks, planks, and
other suitable weapons are gathered from the mass of debris. However,
he fails to understand the looks on their faces. They are staring
blankly in his direction. Some are now looking to the right and left
while others approach the demolished building. However, none look at
him.
Darmon turns around to see what is going on. Seeing no change in the
state of the building, he turns back around to look at the mob. It has
now dispersed with men and women running off in every which way as if
for some reason of great importance.
"What the Elder sees in you, I fail to recognize."
Darmon spins around towards the origin of the voice and falls
backwards. Before him stands a young elf. His skin is tinted a light
shade of green and is flawless in all ways. Under a weathered jerkin
light muscles are apparent. Very misleading...
"I make you invisible to the eyes of these people, and yet you still
stand around instead of grasping your chance to escape. What did you
think, that they had simply forgotten about you?" the elf fired. Darmon
is slightly embarrassed. He had indeed believed himself
forgotten. The elf continues, "But we have no time to talk now. Follow
me." Unable to come up with another course of action, Darmon silently
obeys.
Darmon has never seen an elf before, much less met one. All he knew,
he knew through the stories Garem used to tell him. Many such tales
were old legends, most of the truths lost during the unending passage of
time. Each and every held its own private fascination with Darmon.
However, he also knew that they were far more fiction than fact.
What he is seeing is truth. This nameless elf is fact. His master's
murder was horrifying reality. As he now thinks back once again to
those stories, none compared with the here and now. For what is more
moving? A tragic fiction of shattered tribes, or the loss of one's own
father? The answer is clear, at least to Darmon.
Following the elf quickly through the streets, Darmon almost misses the
happenings around him. In every direction people are racing. The young
apprentice unhappily notes that all seem to be looking for him.
Suddenly, Darmon stops in his tracks.
Out of a building that appears to be some kind of bank, a man is fancy
clothing erupts through the front door. Running, he catches up to one
of the numerous members of the mob and appears to smack him on the
back. As the man falls to the ground, Darmon's jaw drops as he notices
the hand axe now firmly planted in the spine of the townsperson.
Glancing at the elf, he sees a similar, albeit toned down look. The elf
quickly grabs Darmon's arm and pulls him down the street at a breakneck
pace. Behind them, the man continues to chase down seemingly random
people, slaughtering them.
"What is happening?" Darmon yells, desperately trying to be heard over
the deafening roar of screams and anguished cries.
"Don't ask questions! Just move!!!" By the sound of the elf's voice,
he's obviously frightened. Darmon does as he is told and bolts after
the elf down the street. It is over an hour later that the elf finally
stops to allow Darmon to rest.
"Who are you?" Darmon asks after he has had a chance to regain his breath.
"By name I am known as Siltrain'arn Dar."
"Sil...?" Darmon attempts.
"Those who know me well call me Siltran. As you seem to have
difficulties," the elf drags sarcastically, "you may as well."
"Siltran then." Darmon announces. "My name is..."
"Darmon," Siltran intercedes. "Yes, I know."
"How do you know my name?"
"Our meeting wasn't by chance. I came to Deersbrooke to find you."
For a brief instant, Darmon sees flashes of his master's murder. Could
Siltran be there to finish Darmon off? Was he the assassin? The
thought is dismissed the moment it comes to mind. Siltran had saved his
life, after all...
"Why were you so afraid of that man? I thought he couldn't see us."
Darmon asks.
"You're right, he couldn't. We weren't running from him."
"Then who?!?"
"When you have had a chance to meet the Elder, all will be explained."
"Damn it! This is my life! What were you so afraid of?!?"
"Patience is obviously not one of your virtues, human."
"I'll be patient when I have a reason to relax! What are you not
telling me?" Siltran gives a slight sigh.
"Very well. I will explain... briefly. The Elder will answer the rest of your questions."
"Okay, thank you."
"For thousands of years, elven tribes have lived and prospered
throughout the world. We are such because we avoid contact and
corruption with the outside. This you know. The story I will now tell
you has never reached human ears. Now, it is time for that to change."
"Why me? Why are you telling me?"
"You agreed to save all questions for the Elder." The elf had him
there. He shut his mouth again and tried to be patient.
"Sorry..."
"Many millennia ago, the very first of the elven people were born unto
Dominaria. We quickly adapted to the forests, and it became our
preferred home. Here we lived countless generations. We were happy,
healthy, but most of all curious. Because we avoided contact with other
races, many feared that science and intellect would become stagnant
among our race. So we began to seek. We sought out answers to the whys
and hows of the natural world. We searched for truth in the stars and
of ourselves. Our quest for knowledge had side effects that none had
realized or could have possibly predicted." Siltran stops for a moment
and tells Darmon to be absolutely silent. He listens carefully, but
finds nothing. Satisfied that they are alone, he continues.
"For Dominaria was still young at this time, still volatile and
susceptible to energies. The activity of so many minds was bound to
have consequences. Our thoughts mixed and merged and warped as they
burned into the fabric of space and time. As the energy grew, they
began to become alive. They finally coalesced just over one millennia
ago, and our nightmares were born. From the darkest of our dreams and
the evils hidden in our thoughts, a creature was born of the magical
energies of this plane. A creature that was to be the enemy of all
elves. I speak of the pheonix, Tar-Rael."
"Phoenix?" Darmon instantly regrets having asked a question, but
Siltran doesn't seem to mind.
"Of course, we didn't know at first. He simply traveled the land,
destroying our villages and people with ancient flames. Warriors massed
to battle him, but to no avail. A hundred arrows could strike his
heart, but he would not die. Within two years over two-thirds of all
Dominaria's elves had perished in his fires. However, evil breeds good
just as good breeds evil. Out of the smokey haze a hero appeared. A
great mage of human blood... He faced Tar-Rael in combat, the duel of
all duels. Through use of magics now lost to this world, Tar-Rael found
himself losing. Knowing his destruction was at hand, Tar-Rael turned
his flames upon himself. As his body was reduced to ash, he said but
five words, 'In death is new life..." Those words were uttered 1016
years ago. Now, the prophecy of the phoenix is becoming reality.
Tar-Rael has returned."
"And the man in the town?" For some reason, the elf lets this question go as well. Perhaps he is too caught up in thoughts about what he has
just said...
"Tar-Rael is no ordinary being. Because he is created by the energies
of thought, he affects the minds of weak individuals. Elves seem
unaffected, as it was our thoughts that created him. Humans on the
other hand... Some are able to handle it. You are one of those few.
As was Garem... However, those that cannot take the stress of his
presence lose control. Some are overtaken by amnesia, others lose their
handle on their emotions, some go insane."
"Then that man..."
"Yes, he was lost to insanity when Tar-Rael had drew too close.
That was why we left so quickly. We cannot lose you. You are
our final hope..." With these last words Darmon turns quickly and
starts to ask the obvious question. However, by the look on Siltran's
face, it was obvious it wouldn't be forthcoming. Both sat quietly and
lost themselves in thought...