My Name is Blueraven.
My name is Caden Law.
I am a murderer, a liar, and a coward.
I am a vagrant scholar and war veteran.
Months ago, I was pressed to war and sent to die.
Months ago, I took up arms with the people of Raiaera.
I hid behind the lines, letting others fall in my place.
I stood with free Men, with Elves, and with Nature herself.
I have desecrated lands for my own miserable skin.
I have wielded the arcane for any cause that counts.
I have seen the future that I cannot undo.
I have seen a future that cannot come to pass.
I am living proof of sin.
I am a tapestry of scars.
I was born in Salvar, and I ran seeking solace for my crimes.
I was born in Salvar, and I returned seeking to mend my wounds.
I am a tool, filthy and broken.
I am a Wizard, alone and unsanctioned.
A mountain pass somewhere in northeastern Salvar. There was a blizzard raging, but there always is when you're this far out. Even in times where people can lie and say their seclusion will give them peace. Once upon a time, the people near and around this pass thought its remoteness was enough to protect it, and that the blizzards were just a small price to pay for their safety. For their hubris, they would spend the next years trying to find their lost children; trying to rebuild their broken families; trying to wash the blood out of their desecrated Church. They had chosen to live in a part of the world too far removed from any seat of power to warrant the aid of Salvar's weather magi. That the roads remained worthy of travel was irrelevant.
The pass was a nexus, not just of roads, powers, and intentions, but of lives and stories. It was one of those unseen henges upon which the fate of the world pivots. Only four actual roads connected here, but a million stories had passed the sign at its end, and maybe there would be a million more to come in the years ahead. Stories of adventurers in dark tunnels by ancient streams; of shadowy spies in torchlit streets; grand heroes from unassuming places; and stranger tales from the wilderness. The ground was kept clearer than most parts of the region, if only because someone so many years ago had happened upon this place and thought to put a weatherpost where the roads forked. It wasn't impressive.
Until you realized that it was the only reason why an attentive eye would see all the tracks worn into the stones beneath the snow.
It was also the only reason that Caden was able to find what remained of his horse, along with all the packs still fastened to it. It was where he parted ways with Dueril; not on the high note their friendship deserved, but on a somber one that included crossed blades and military salutes. They exchanged a gift each, not that Caden had much to give. Just money, and that wasn't enough to pay for what the blacksmith had given him -- which included, among other things, a riding ram.
I have done awful things.
I have done noble deeds.
Because I did not have the courage to do anything else.
Because I did not have the choice to do anything else.
"You did what you could," Dueril told him as he handed Caden the ram's reins. The animal had been too fidgety, and people had been too cooped up with it during their internment in the barns. It needed freedom as much as anyone else did. "But they needed someone to blame, boy. And those monsters, gods damn 'em, they did come lookin' for you."
"I know," Caden said, trying and failing not to sound bitter. They had run him out of the village, stones thrown and everything. Dueril followed a few hours later, bringing with him all of his weapons, his packs, his wagon, and three rams: Two fixed to the wagon, and a third with a saddle and jittery nerves. It looked at Caden, Caden looked to it, and both of them snorted in turn. "I just wish they hadn't been screaming all those names when they threw the rocks."
"Can't be helped," Dueril sighed. "You're the Wizard that did it, Blueraven. And as long as you wear that Hat, and cast those spells, that's what you'll be." He said the words with sympathy, but logic had a way of ruining that and both of them knew it. "Take this ram," he ordered.
"I don't exactly have a good history with animals," Caden admitted, thumbing at the dead workhorse.
"'Sokay. I'm not askin' you to bring it back. Charger can take care of himself when he has to...and now, my boy, I'd say that you can too."
Caden loaded the ram up, bag by bag, and then eased himself into the saddle. Charger was smaller than the horses Caden had ridden before, but not by much. Almost as tall and long as a Raiaeran steed, and certainly wider. His hair was thicker and longer, colored stark white with black horns and hooves. The ram grunted, and it sounded more like a bull than a mountain goat. Caden waved good-bye to Dueril, and the Dwarf finally saluted him in turn. His eyes were a bit misty, not that he'd ever admit it.
I am the Wizard that did it.
And today, I ran from my failures.
Look through those eyes, and see now what Dueril Dwight sees.
A man of twenty-odd years of age, wearing a pointed blue Hat and a longcoat to match. Pale in the sense of being pasty, unassuming, and too busy exploring dark chambers and dank dungeons to ever get enough sunlight. A man with a sword on one hip, a rod on the other, and the skills and knowledge to use both. A man who, in many ways, reminded Dueril of a certain young half-breed with too many axes to grind and too many scars to carry.
The Dwarf stayed a while longer, but Caden took off without another word. Charger didn't break into a stride so much as it leapt forward, and then leapt again, and then turned that chain of crazed leaps into some kind of long-distance sprint where its hooves only ever had strained diplomatic relations with the ground at best. Down the road, up onto the side of a near-vertical incline, and right over the tip of a mountain wall, never to be seen around these parts again.
My name is Caden Law.
I endure.