Scions of Magic (Inactive)

Game Master Viscount K

Alexandra grow up on the road, her Father and mother both worked on the great caravans running the great trade ways to and from the Chapel on the Hill. As the oldest of three kids she spent most of her younger days helping her mother looking after the high end goods. Setting them is trapped box's for safe shipping wile her dad looked after the the security on the great wagon trains.

"Always be minds fill Alex" her dad would say "What would seem just a common man may be a the Scot for bandit group, or a sneak thief"

"how do you know them dad?" she she asked once,

"Because it takes one to know one little alex"

It was only later, after her "training" that she leaned just what that meant. Mum and dad she found out had been professorial robbers, from two gangs that hated each other, Love across the lines was, well seen as more then bad. So once Alex came along they left the city and hit the roads. It was that of face there gang mates, never a good idea. Keeping on the move they said had just become habit. So Alex and her siblings lived and grow up on the road, leaning what they could from the ones they meet and the skills mum and dad had. It was a good life even if it had its dangers. The bow and the blade saved them more than once. As she came of age she felt the need to strike out on her own, make her own way. In the end dad said,

"next time we come to a big city, drop off there little one, spend some time looking around and get the training they offer, we will come back in a few mouths and you if you desire you can come with us again or stay, you of an age to know your own mind"

So that's what she did, fast falling in with other of the 'Art' leaning new things and finding her gift with traps was much sort after in Danel
as she entered into the training all citizens are required to undergo as they reach their maturity.

In form ->
Alex is tall and slim, her mum joked about the family have fay blood in it, and Alex wondered if that was true as both her mother and father ha the look. She moves with with speed and like all her family uses a bow much better than a cross. Her hear is dark and like mean on the roads she has tattoos of her battles.

In Action ->
Clever and brite she leans fast and has self conformance, she trusts her skills and thinks 1st then acts.

Yafeu's dress, stance, and accent place him on the wharf. Small gleams of gold at fingers, throat, and ear mark him as relatively successful. There remains an open question as to what he is prosperous at - what is his profession? Clearly he is not a lord, priest, mage, or soldier. His surety of bearing and quality of clothing and jewelry rule out simple labor. It is perhaps no accident that Yafeu could be taken for an itinterate trader, a pirate, or something less mundane.

"Today I'm a messenger. Just a courrier. But get back to me tomorrow, and maybe we can do business."

Yafeu, his father, and their compatriots catered to the practical, the collector, and the curious. And few were more curious than Yafeu. As he grew into a slight and nimble adolescent, he participated in these explorations. He was inducted into the community. His code was the honor of theives, but his heart that of a scholar.

The passing of Yafeu's father was at once personally devastating, and at the same time a non-event in Yafeu's life. Yefeu was 17, and had learned the business of an honest river freight hauler, as well as the more lucrative but risky business of extracting and smuggling forbidden artifacts. Yafeu had the contacts to pick up the family business without a beat.

After several years of independent operation (within the web of the underground artifacts community), Yafeu was approached by a special client. 'Magpie' had previously been very stand-off-ish, though consistent and lucrative. Magpie approached Yafeu in person, and painted him a picture. Magpie was an actor in the famous city of Danel - not a key player, not central - but on the inside. And the flow of artifacts and information from Yafeu's network had drawn official attention. Magpie had a unique proposal for going to ground - he would arrange for Yafeu to be sponsored to citizenship in Danel itself; receive the training of any citizen, and gain access to information as a nominal member of the militia. Such an arrangement would also provide an excuse for Magpie to intervene if Yafeu were ever later implicated in possession and smuggling activities.

Probe and prod and turn over, inspect all its teeth, and ask it to turn its head and cough, Yafeu could find no deficiency in this proposition. It seemed a win at every turn, with the only downsides that he must suspend operations for the duration, and expose himself to official (if 'friendly') attention. What Yafeu (as essentially a rural bargeman with some specialized skills) failed to compass was that the traps and hooks in Magpie's deal stemmed not from any deficiency, but from surplus - it was more than it seemed. Magpie represents a powerful faction in Danel. Magpie's faction had been jostling at a low level with several other factions for access to and control of Yafeu. Magpie was laying out a marker on Yafeu, a subtle warning to factions seeking to erase Yafeu and his knowledge that Magpie would make that an expensive and visible proposition.

'Yes, we should be away tomorrow,' thought Yafeu, 'If the goods are not as expected, or if the sale doesn't go smoothly, then as wise to be upriver several hours.' The previous day's boost had been perfect. Nasir and his boys had met them at their river mooring with horses. They'd ridden through the evening to a deserted palace off the beaten track, near the barrens. A few hours of exploration, some prying out of semi-precious stones, rolling up some carpets and wall hangings. And the real prize, a set of scrolls and texts dedicated to the forgotten death goddess Pharasma - beautiful works of art locked into a concealed cubby - hidden away and deserted. Just as the customer had said. Though the customer hadn't known how to find the cubby, or open it, nor how to disarm the swinging blade trap that guarded it. Those small things aside, a clean boost. No interruptions. No lurking monstrous beasts or poisonous vermin.

Yafeu felt something must go wrong. This had not been the boost of the tomb of a megalomaniac lordling, or relieving a wealthy merchant of the contents of his warehouse. There was something.. impious.. about lifting the contents of a shrine, even if only a small household shrine. 'We'll be well away tomorrow. It's a new river every day,' he thought to himself. He shook his head, 'it's only some outdated superstition,' seeking reassurance against his fears. He tried to find sleep despite his father's drunken ruccus.

Machmud had taken a portion of their wages - the portion Yafeu had not cached on board the ship - and gone celebrating. It was a good payday. Nasir's local man, Efuss, had collected the goods from the ship's concealed stowage, and left for the sale. Efuss had left them the lion's share of their price. Machmud had met him in town later for the balance. Machmud had come back late, drunk, and with several more jugs of wine - so Efuss must have delivered the balance. Yafeu drifted off while calculating where upriver they could convert the remainder of their wages to supplies and a cargo - preferably somewhere lacking in wine merchants.

Yafeu rose before dawn. It was very quiet, only the lapping of the river water, and the earliest of fishing crews punctuating the silence. Yafeu looked to Machmud's bunk, but it had not been slept in. He busied himself about the cabin briefly, folding his bunk away. He left his father's bunk down, anticipating that he might want to nap later. Yafeu went out on deck with broom and rag, anticipating cleanup before being able to cast off. He looked around the small ship, and it didn't take long to find his father.

Machmud had tangled his feet in the lines. He'd stumbled and crashed through a rail. He hadn't gone in altogether, but rather had been suspended by his ankle from the tangling lines. His torso had been immersed to the waist, head down.

[i]'So Pharasma has had her due. How better for the long-forgotten Goddess of Fate and Death to express her displeasure?' Yafeu thought numbly, considering his father's fate. Pondering his own fate. Pondering whether superstition was so out of date.

"Yafeu's father died in a squalid and undistinguished way three years ago - Yafeu was 17. Yafeu kept the family franchise operating. From time to time he would bring help onto his boat, but never for long, and always from a small circle of known associates." Magpie tapped a nail on his polished desk, "Yafeu was very fortunate. His father passed shortly after the change of government in Parshien, opening the younger settlements of Althesia to outsiders. The network of scoundrels Yafeu's father had done business with had a sudden need for his services. They knew him from years past, and steered the worst of the cutthroats and exploiters away from him."

Magpie chuckled. "Yafeu knows many things. He's an intellectual omnivore. He can disassemble a lock faster than I can blink. But he does not study people. After his father's death, Yafeu was exceptionally vulnerable. In slightly different circumstances, with slightly different friends, well..." he gazed into the distance for a moment. "Yafeu is a very lucky young man. He's charming. He works hard and observes the honor of theives. He doesn't assume the best of those he meets, he expects the best. And he expects the same of himself. Frankly I've been amazed at how frequently truly villanous characters respect Yafeu and deal fairly with him."

"Naive? No - Yafeu isn't naive. He knows evil. He lives with cruelty, calousness, and exploitation every day. And he hates evil in the abstract. When he meets people, however, he finds evil to be disappointing and saddening. It's a queer burden he places on people." He looked a bid more sharply, "No, I haven't seen him faced with intentional evil, or immorality. Knowing him as I do, I suspect he'll take the elemental on its own terms, and not attempt to treat with it on a moral basis. True, malignant evil? I'll be shocked if he is anything other than an implacable, if canny and realistic, foe of the darkness. Otherwise my recommendation of him to the Organization was badly mistaken."

"Oh yes, after his father's death. Part of what kept Yafeu in demand was his knowledge of the ruins, temples, and crypts across the Althesian wastes, along with his explorer's bent, and a certain flexibility about legalisms. Many of the adventurers and bravos flowing into Althesia hired Yafeu's services in the next year or so. He added value to each venture that he hired onto, and he ensured that his value increased because of each venture. I came to know Yafeu during this time. Many of the delivered items from upriver he delivered directly. I would ask him from time to time how the ventures progressed, and what he carried. He was always very careful - he never said he knew what was in packages that were sealed. But he also does not dissemble with great skill. Yafeu opened and inspected every item he delivered here. When pressed for details of dates or names, he would refer to his own journal, and in that journal were frequent transcriptions from scrolls, or sketches of artifacts, and other esoterica beyond the mundane details of business."

"But I was not alone in recognizing Yafeu's growing value in Althesia. Representatives of other organizations - from Danel and elsewhere - also dealt with him, each supporting their own projects. Yafeu was very busy in that time." Magpe looked intently at his guest, "Yafeu was not unique - rare, but not unique. Until the day he came to me with an issue. His manner was somewhat insolent and 'tough', but it barely masked his concern and disillusionment. One of our field operatives (no, I'll not name names) tried to draft Yafeu into an internal power play - and hang all the blame on another field operative. Yafeu explained to me that he was not going to be held responible for pointless internal squabbles. He dumped the original fee, the item, and the responsibility back in my lap. He said he didn't want to lose business with the offender, or the intended mark, but that he didn't have time or inclination to finesse everyone's feelings and confidence." Magpie chuckled, "No, not much patience for negotiating personalities. Nor for soothing the foolish and self-serving."

"So I solved the internal issue. More importantly though, I prevailed on a well-respected friend-of-a-friend-of-the-family in Danel to sponsor Yafeu to citizenship and training in Danel. I quietly arranged for extensive and glowing recommendations from many of Yafeu's customers outside the organization. Yafeu is among the lowest profile affiliates ever. For now, it suits him."

"So yes, I've been watching him, and quietly mentoring him. He's well situated for recruitment. I feel that we need to explicitly recruit him before he independently discovers the extent of our interference in his affairs. Yafeu understands aligned interests, and quiet evaluation, and even compartmenting information for protection. But he hates being manipulated. If we want him to act as an agent of the organization, we have to get his willing cooperation. Otherwise, we risk alienating him altogether."

"Yes, I had heard that.", Asa said, folding a simple kapenia scarf, and putting it into her bag.

"He is a man of authority. And you will be his student."

"Yes, Father. But I was your student, first, and Mother's. And I have questions, there. But what were you hinting at?"

"Hrmf. You are not a child... Such a situation, might turn a girl's head..."

Asa smiled. "Father. My head has been turned, before." Her father's shock made it clear, he'd misheard her. "No. Do not go there, Father. I only mean, I am not a silly moth, to burn in the arms of this week's brightest flame. I am your daughter, and Mother's daughter, and Grandmother's... daughter. I take myself seriously. Do you doubt it?"

"No. No, Asa. You are as always, dutiful. Our Shieldmaid." Notes of sincere pride and playful mockery rang in her Father's voice, as only in a father's voice they might.

"Ah, that is the thing, that I would discuss. With this Gohren, am I to be a Shieldmaid? Is he to know, of the Kapenia styles? Of the shielded strike? Or am I to be, with him, just the tavern maid, who might throw a tray?" She smiled, teasingly, at first, but guiltily when her father scowled.

"You should not have done that. We are to be hidden. Until."

"Until. Until when? Until what?", she asked, the echoes of earlier askings making her single voice a chorus to them both.

"Your mother knew. Your grandmother, knew. And they told you, although you may not know it, yet..."

"No, I do not know it. I know the kapenia, the art to dress it, to wear it, to weild it like a sword, like a claw, like a spear. I know the shield, to cover, and strike, and tumble, and throw. And to combine them in the dance, so a turn is a strike, and a strike is a turning, and I am not where I was, but where I need to be next... I can dance, it was my first memory, the Dance. The shields you have made me, or made myself, are stacked like the wicker baskets they are. The kapenia, we must have a hundred of them, mine, and Mother's and Gran's, but I do not know why."

"You know. You do not yet understand." He had always said that.

"And you won't explain.", she pouted resignedly.

"I do not even know, let alone understand."

Asa sighed. This conversation always ended the same way, in unanswered question. She remembered the other question. "What of this Gohren, then?"

"What of him?"

"What can he know? What can he be shown that I know? What, of what I know, can I let him learn that I know? And how, am I supposed to keep such a secret from such a man, when he is teaching such things?"

Her father blinked at her. "I have no idea."

Ben Ali (Son of Ali), not Benalia. Yes, the MTG Benalish Hero IS an inspiration. But I don't intend the MTG Benalia. I am, however, very much enjoying my private joke of 'Benalish Waitress'. You see, when inflation hit MTG powers, I used to complain about it by saying my Benalish Hero can only get a job, now, as a waitress. "It's not a shield... it's a tray!" That Asa is a waitress, and the daughter of a Son of Ali, and a Skirnir... makes me smile. I'll scrub the bio of copywrong.

Asa's maternal line, I intend to have hidden some seeds or clues or such for the working of magic, in the 'crying bowl' ("I remember Gran crying over it, saying she'd lost something. Many times. I asked what, one time. She said she could no longer remember. But that I would. She... was very old.") So the bowl will be discovered as a shield and crypto key, and the kapenias will be discovered as a sort of spellbooks, and as a journal of the fading and forgetting of magic. Eventually. When it fits your plot.

I expect Asa bint Aangul and her father Mahmed bin Ali (and her mother Aangul, and her grandmother, who Asa only ever called grandmother, though I expect she knows her actual name...) came to Danel when Asa was a child. They have kept largely apart from local culture, though they are a part of it. That needs explaining. They run a tavern, perhaps a small inn, if there is any traffic to support such. This of course puts them into contact with people. But in their own time, they are largely private.

They explain this time with the beautiful decorated weavings Asa produces (taking 10 for 21), but much of the time is actually fitness and combat training. Mahmed is her coach, and no slouch himself, though he does seem so, when calling for Asa from behind the tavern's bar. Asa seems to do all the mobile work of the place. Aangul passed some years ago, during a time when Asa was curiously encouraged to 'see if you can hide under Gram's bowl...'. She could! But when she came out, her mother had died, fallen from a horse while riding. Asa has not yet learned to ride, perhaps as a result. She has also not touched the bowl, though it is prominent in their home.

The Northerners practice a form of animism and ancestor worship they refer to as the 'Callings.' Each tribe has a specific Calling. Callings can be almost anything but are generally a kind of task or labour. For instance, the Owl Feather tribe adhere to the Calling of burial practices while the Perched Hawk tribe has the Calling of guarding a stretch of the southern borders. A Calling is pursued by a tribe to the best of their abilities for they believe that if the followers of a Calling die out then the spirits of that tribe will be exiled from the Lands of the Dead by Amuut, the owl-eyed lord of the dead.

Some tribes, such as the Owl Feathers, have a Calling that forces them to spread out among the other tribes. As such, many of the larger tribes may contain members of other tribes who supplement the client tribe with their various skills. Generally speaking, these divided tribes usually have an anual meeting to reconnect, trade information, perform rituals and make decisions. Depending on the Calling a tribe may be sedentary or nomadic and individual traditions and dogma varies from tribe to tribe but Amuut, the location of the Land of the Dead and the Callings remain a constant.

The landscape is also dotted with ruins of some manner of civilization that predates the Northerners by centuries if not millennia. These ruins are generally seen as sacred or cursed and not to be disturbed. The Owl Feathers make use of some as tombs and seem to know more than most about the ruins' true nature but jealously guard their secrets. Rumor has it that if you travel deep enough into the ruins then you will come across an ancient installation that links all of the ruins in the north to each other and might even stretch far beyond. Of course, you will then have to evade the various defenders of the ruins and essentially the entire population of the north to share any of the discoveries you may make down there.

Some occultists and scholars believe the Northerners to be either the degenerated descendants of the Urlanders or possibly a kind of servitor caste. The second theory states how the Callings each tribe adheres to complements that of the other tribes and serves to protect the borders of the north against an organized invasion and closely guard the ruins. Few respectable scholars put much value on the more outlandish legends and theories.

However, there is currently little love for the Northerners, since in the past hundred years there have been two great forays into the south by the Northerners that left large swaths of the nations along the southern borders decimated. Sporadic raiding has continued to the current day. Those Northerner families that move south, either due to exile or personal reasons often face prejudice or hostility.

Since the martial castes are generally the only ones the people of the south are exposed to, it is often assumed that the entire population of the north is made up of similar brutes.

As for Arthur, well, perhaps the people who speak of him are right. He was always odd, even when he was young. His parents, scholars the both of them, often tried to teach him their lifes work. Their goal had been to find and preserve the knowledge of old in the hopes that it could help the people of the present through the dark times. When he learned to read at the age of four, he would often try to make heads or tails of the books and scrolls his family had uncovered. Somehow, in only a few years, he would be moving through those books, those scrolls and other forms of literature at a pace ascribed to people a decade older. By the time he was eight, he was reading books of his own choosing whenever his parents were away on one of their treks. Most of the books he chose focused on mechanical marvels and engineering theories. A great many of these were simple drawings or ideas scratched into a book, simple feats of engineering such as forges, or complex ideas that often involved 'magic' of old.

As he grew older, however, his thirst for knowledge of such things grew as well. He began to visit the forges, at least until most of the smiths chased him away, and it was then that he happened upon Durn, who was patient enough to indulge the young lad by answering his questions. Through Durn, and through texts of so many cultures his parents had gathered, idea's began to flow from the boy. They were, however, cut short by the loss of his parents, who, when he was but nine years old, failed to return from one of their treks. He waited month after month for them to return, hoping that they were simply late for one reason or another. He often perched himself on the edge of the cities walls, hoping to see them crest the hill to the south that they had walked over a few months ago. He waited. And waited.

Durn quickly realized the reason for the boys absence from his smithy and only had to ask a few questions to find where the boy was now. It wasn't long before Durn took the boy into his home, not wanting the lad, who had barely been eating the last few days, to starve. As the months rolled on and became years, it became obvious that the boys family wasn't going to return. So Durn adopted the boy, took him in and began to raise him as his own. This meant a lot of physical work around the forge, which slowly but surely drew Arthur out of his depression. It helped that Durn encouraged the lad to pick up where he left off with his studies. Now, at the age of eleven, Arthur once more delved down the path of innovation. The loss of his parents hit him hard, however, and the path of his studies became far less whimsical now. The young boy, whose intelligence had always been the source of great pride for his family, knew that the dangers of the world would only continue to grow and that, to combat them, a new weapon must be created to protect what was left of civilization. The ideas of flying machines were gone now, replaced by this want to create something to protect others. He puts on hold his dreams of reaching the skies so that others might live to dream.

Given that most of his ideas came from stories or books that involved rituals of old, Arthur had to find a way to recreate a great deal of his ideas through science. Much of what he did had only barely been touched upon before the dark age that now shrouded man kind. It seemed that societies o the past put way to much faith in non existent magic and fairy tales so that technology never progressed. At least, in most cases. One city, a small mining town to the west that existed a few hundred years ago, found completely by accident a way to recreate some of the more explosive effects of the supposed rituals of old. This town, that sat near the edge of a mountain, had mistakenly come upon a vein of the mineral. The resulting explosion when one of the miners dropped his lamp caught the interest of those who ran the town. The investigation that discovered the results yielded an idea that supposedly let them break free from older traditions involving rituals and magic. How they had gotten long with such things, Arthur never understood, but then again he spent only a little time trying to understand the effects of supposed magic in the past. He only needed to know the intentions that such rituals would have, not the theory that drove them. Through the use of black powder, they were able to carve through the mountain. Unfortunately there town fell prey to an avalanche caused by an over use of said powder, but thankfully his parents had come upon the ruins and decided to dig. The exact refinement process was lost to time, but the name of the mineral was not.

Arthur, ecstatic at this discovery, asked Durn to acquire some for him. The smith had Arthur work off the payment for the mineral before ever placing an order, but when next the supplies for the cities smithy came in Durn made the request to go to the miners. Arthur was very lucky. The rock he asked for was not very common, but it wasn't seen as valuable since a use for it had yet to be discovered. Arthur, again with the aid of his adoptive father, learned how to break apart and filter the large chunks of the mineral until he had the finest of black powder. Then, often in the dead of night, Arthur would venture out of the city, outside it's walls, and experiment. It took him days to even learn how to get the minerals to explode. Fire, without any direction or control, simply created smoke. It wasn't until his seventh attempt, where he had used an old breastplate his father had discarded from his shop, and a long fuse that he was able to obtain enough heat. Unfortunately in this instance he had used a bit too much of the black powder and the rock he had hid behind did not protect his ears from the thunderous boom the explosion created.

He was so excited, however, that he did not care when the guards came looking for him and found the scorch marks in the ground, nor did he care that he was unable to hear what they were saying. Without explaining he ran home to tell his father the good news. It would take another year of working for him to find the best possible way to recreate the explosion, given that supplies from the mines only came every few months and the rock was hard to find. Arthur spent the time not working in his fathers forge to pay for his experiments looking through different avenues of knowledge, through the many books and scrolls his family had left behind, for more answers. His answer came, oddly, from the seemingly more barbaric northmen. Their culture had been simpler and though their methods were crude and a great deal of their innovation supposedly came from the rituals of old, Arthur discovered one scroll his mother had procured. It was more recent, but it described ways to use the oils of more common plants to help create flames that would last longer.

This was not the formula that Arthur would use, but it was the inspiration that drove him to search through both his own library and the city/state's records for ways to create extreme heat through oils. To say that Arthur earned a few burns during the experimentation for this process is an understatement. It became clear that the general way of grinding the herbs up would not yield precise enough results, so Arthur set about finding more exact ways to get what he needed from herbs. His answer came from a scroll from the east. It described ways to distill the oils found on plants by evaporating them, then cooling them off in a separate container so that they became oil once more. For anyone else, the concept might have been to far fetched, but Arthur was willing to try anything. With the aid of his father and a local glass blow, Arthur had made three beakers. They were simple and crude things, but after countless days of trial and error he was able to produce viable results. Some side affects, such as the fact that he seems to have permanently burned away a line through his right eyebrow, were ignored in favor of finding what he needed.

The end result came at the beginning of his thirteenth winter. By treating the black powder with the oil he had distilled, then lighting it in a contained area, Arthur had achieved his goal. The unfortunate downside was learning how to harness the force of the explosion. Simple tossing a packet of the stuff with a lit fuse often came back with mixed results. To many things could go wrong and the expense of getting so much of the mineral he needed for the black powder would, by his estimation, drive Durn out of business within a few days. It was Durn, his adoptive father, who would give him further inspiration.
At the age of 13 now, Arthur was old enough and big enough to learn how to wield weapons. Durn, ever the responsible one, set about teaching Arthur how to use the most common weapons one was likely to find. He instilled in the boy the basics of such things, how to hold yourself and the weapon, how to move with the blade or to breath with the release of an arrow. He taught Arthur what he knew and the young man discovered he had a natural talent for bows and crossbows. Ever curious, Arthur studied certain books within the cities library and learned that the power of the crossbow, so focused, had once been enough to punch through armor and was among the simplest weapons to learn how to use. An idea formed in his mind then of how powerful a projectile would be with the force of his black powder.

The next two years were spent creating prototype after prototype. More often then not, he lost them in botched trials, whether because he made a mistake in forging them or because he made a mistake in his powder, which was far from perfect in it's own right. Design after design was tossed aside as Arthur spent every minute he wasn't sleeping or working trying to solve problems that arose. And he began to work more and more often as the materials he needed as well as the tools he had to purchase or create became more numerous. His designs ranged from massive to miniscule. It was near his fifteenth summer that he was able to create his first working prototype. It fired more then half the time and had the strength to punch through armor. He has spent the last year working, tweaking, and making adjustments to this device.

While this explains a great deal of what he has done over his short life, it leaves out a lot of information about Arthur. For instance, because of his near obsessive amount of time spent on this project of his, few know exactly what he looks like. Those that have seen him have seen a rather wiry young man moving about Durns smithy doing chores, often mumbling to himself. When he does venture out of his home, it's usually to either collect supplies or conduct tests, so aside from his father the people who have seen him the most are likely the guards at the cities gate. And even they do not know exactly what his project is as, more often then not, he keeps it hidden within a cloth wrapping, unwilling to reveal it until he deems it ready.

There are rumors abound of the eccentric youth, most of which claim he is touched in the head. The thunder that used to rattle from his room and now peals over the walls whenever he ventures outside confuses these people, however. He is still alive when he returns, after all, and he is obviously working on something. So it seems that he might be successful. But successful with what they often ask. What is he doing? Most who know him or of him simply choose to believe he is harmlessly mad. No one save him has ever received an injury from any of his machinations, so any attempt to quell his experiments have slowly died out over the years. But there can be no mistake, he does not think as others do. Wherever his mind is few people can follow.

Well today is the day that he reveals his invention to someone other then his father. Today is the day that he goes for his training with the descendant of the founder of Danel. Perhaps, he hopes, that with this mans approval and maybe even the aid of the city he could make even greater strides with his work. And perhaps, if he can create a way to make his musket effective, perfect the design even, then he can find support for other ideas. Though he had long ago given up such fanciful ideas as the flying machine, he still keeps with him the drawing and will, when he needs encouragement, take it out to look at it.