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Born in a small town in the Grisic Empire, Oliver never wanted for much. His family was by no means wealthy, but they had more than enough to get by and ensure that Oliver had access to a respectable education, amble food, and exposure to many of the modern technologies that were just beginning to filter out from the great cities of the Empire.
Technology and industry never caught Oliver’s attention, however. He was much more inclined to read, and to read alone in the woods. Other people fascinated him, but only from a distance. His proclivity for spending large amounts of time either alone or watching others from the shadows never won him many friends but, when he was young, most people saw it as harmless. It was only as he grew older that people began to think there was something wrong with him. Innocent staring began to be interpreted as something more sinister, even by the otherwise rational and scientifically-minded people of the town.
Sorcery was whispered in the wind, but nothing bad had happened yet. Nothing had given the people cause to do anything more than just wonder about Oliver. Many just assumed he was anti-social, and that he couldn’t help but be a little odd. That wasn’t the same as being a mage, they argued. He was just a painter and a reader, and nothing more.
Until a girl turned up dead.
Oliver’s habit of reading alone hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other adolescents, and some of them made a habit of picking on him for it. Annora was one of those bothersome bullies, and one day, while Oliver was by himself, she sat out to locate and annoy him. He would simply get up and walk further into the woods, and she would follow him. That cycle continued until they were a good distance from town, and until the sun had started to set. Now lost, the pair wandered aimlessly, hurling insults and hurtful words at each other until they were even further away from home.
The moonless darkness did them no favors. They were truly lost. When that realization set in, they ceased their squabbling and trudged along in silence. The deathly quiet was broken by a monstrous cry and the emergence of a monstrous figure from the brush. The monster had human legs with clawed, cat-like feet. Its head was that of an owl, but with the eyes of a spider. Its torso, such as it was, looked like it could have belonged to an emaciated bear, and it had a pair of pumping lungs stuck to the stub that would have been its left arm. Instead of a right arm, the monster had the wing and talons of some massive bird of prey. It shrieked horribly and lunged straight for the pair.
Oliver never saw Annora again. Not in one piece, anyway. While the abomination tore her apart, he darted into the darkness, only stopping when his legs would carry him no further and his body gave out.
He awoke in a cage and inside of an unfamiliar hut. For hours he tried to escape, and for hours, he failed. He was alone in the hut, which was filled with books and exposed to the outside air by open windows. Only when Oliver had already given up did a man walk through the door and greet him.
The man called himself the Shapeling, and he said that the people of the nearby town blamed Oliver for the girl’s death. They said that they believed he created the monster that killed Annora, and he said that the monster was properly called “an Atrocity.” The Atrocity was dead now, but they were looking for Oliver. And that was reason enough for the Shapeling to snatch Oliver away--”for your own good,” the Shapeling had said.
Predictably, Oliver was upset. The unkempt man standing before him in rudimentary, borderline primitive clothes could very well have been lying, but Oliver couldn’t help but think his story was true. So when the Shapeling gave Oliver the choice to stay and learn how to protect himself, he accepted. What other choice did he have?
Oliver stayed with the Shapeling for years, and in that time he was initiated into the art of Malformity. The Atrocity that had killed Annora was the result of a failed initiation, but Oliver would only learn as much after he had already survived the grueling process. A life in the remote wilderness with an experienced mage ensured that Oliver was able to excel in his studies for the short time he studied under the Shapeling, but he never dared to try and transform into an animal--to Mold--despite his mentor’s insistence. Understanding an animal’s mind was one thing, but to risk becoming some sort of horrible monster trying to become one was another. He was particularly fond of ravens, who often came to roost near the hut. They were intelligent and free. Oliver obviously wished he could relate.
All was well until, after years of being separated from his old life, hunters came across the Shapeling’s secluded home. It wasn’t long before a mob came and stormed it, capturing both Oliver and the Shapeling and hauling them away to be imprisoned.
The Shapeling was burned at the stake less than a day later. He had obviously been using magic--something that was punishable by death in the Grisic Empire--but Oliver, they were less sure about. They left him to rot for days, only occasionally coming to feed, water, and interrogate him until he finally heard word that he was set to be burned the next day. Seeing no other option, Oliver recalled all of his training and all of his experiences to, at long last, and after an excruciating amount of physical and mental anguish, mold himself into the shape of a large raven. When the guards came for him and opened the door, he flew right past and over their heads and then out through a chimney. The process of turning back to a human was no less draining, especially after that violent burst of flight, but at least he was safe from the pyre. Even if he was alone in the world.
In the years that followed, Oliver wandered North, staying out of sight until he was sure he was far away from the witch-hunters and dangerous mobs that might have killed him for being a mage. At first he found work doing odd jobs as he meandered his way towards Daravin, which he knew to be a land more tolerant of magic users. Then, he found temporary work wherever he could get it painting things for people who could pay. Eventually, at long last, he gathered enough money to make his final journey to Genteven, where he hoped to carve out a successful life for himself away from those who would kill people like him on sight.
