8th Glade, 4607
I would wake up; I was only a small child of seven years of age. The cacophony of my mother and father arguing could be heard in the dead of night as they battled for the dominance of the family house. It was something I had lived with for a while. My mother and father would constantly be at war with each other as I hid beneath the bedsheets. The smashing of plates, pots and pans would be fairly common, followed by the cussing and slurs outside my bedroom door. It was chaos. They were the ones deciding the fate of my initiation.
It was indeed chaos; there was no order in this family. Everyone had an opinion, everyone questioned each other. They were not on the same page. The marriage between my mother and father was always somewhat strained. A love hate relationship. However, the initiation had to be done, to continue the legacy of the Veir house. However, it seemed to be crumbling, for only my magical initiation could potentially save it.
Maybe.
It had to be done; to be blessed with magic was to be within the high spirits of those in society. However, there was a price I could pay. I could've died young; but I didn't. Instead I have a poison within me, a festering seed that could boil over at any point. It altered aspects of my personality, changed me as I got older. I laid in the dark as I can hear my mother and father bickering and arguing constantly. The chaos; thats what made me have a bitter view on life. My mother would come into my room as she stood their; like a figure of death.
My first initiation was nigh. Her shadow blanketed me like death; it was not a moment too soon that my family had chosen the magic I would be destined to be initiated in. Bane. Reportedly, one of the worse vile magics in history as I was told bedtime stories of the fabled, yet allegedly cruel figures of all, although it was much lighter. The truth had in fact been much darker than some mere children's story. The Scourge. It was the reason why magocratic organisations and religious groups feared the Scourge; for it was a shrouded mass of death, destruction and chaos, capable of enthralling entire kingdoms with blackmail and pestilience, lies and deceit. A terrifying assassin that had lead people to become paranoid about blood on their clothes; it was a being that would bring kingdoms to their knees. The whole concept that one day I could develop into such a vile being. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be a figure of fear and hatred all my life, but it appeared that was the path I was heading. As a young child, such initiation was cruel, but my mother wanted people to fear me.
Why? I was still a child. A child of a Sil'Norai family in Daravin. It had been seen as an empowering gift to have magic. My own apotheosis into this life would be nothing but a curse. I flinched as she would inscribe the mark into my back; the triskelion shaped seed that would spout from within me. At that moment, my eyes would dilate as I am forced to peer into the Dead Realm. The visions were frightening as I saw ghosts. Those who had passed on in such pain; the sorrow and anguish on their faces as some would had memories. It was like looking into the fabrics of time itself as I mastered the first concept. At that moment I was forced to breathe the black cloud of dust into my lungs. Ashes. The malleable dusk cloud entered my lunges, forcing me into a state of drowning.
"You must breathe it all in, Caladrin!" My mother shouted. The fearful process of dying at such a young age was beyond me. I continued to have frightful visions; they had a forsaken quality to them. What was that? Is that me? Am I destined to die? They would taunt me as they screamed in pain as they peered through once again as my body begins to feel some kind of pull into the Dead Realm. Wait. A black substance was created within the palm of my hands as it quivered and oozed in my palm. It had a gelatinous substance to it; it was odorless, sickly looking. It bubbled in the palm of my hand as my mother watched.
"Swallow the Pathos!"
Pathos? The black substance in my hand? As a child, I knew if I didn't I would die; I would continue to be shrouded by the memories of the dead. They screamed their cries of torment; they lamentations of sorrow and more importantly their malicious intent to stop me from succeeding. I took the black substance in the palm of my hand and took it in my mouth, before swallowing it. The memories of the dead would continue to haunt me as it revealed the final fabric of time. Ethos.
The Three Miasmatas.
They were apart of me now. The ashes, the pathos and the ethos. It wasn't at that moment when I vomited a sickly black bile from my lungs as I was relieved. It didn't take me long before I fell unconscious as my mother held me in my arms. "There, you're safe child." She said. I was far from it; I had my first mark successfully brought upon me; but the process had scarred me. My soul had blackened, my resolve had sent me into a constant state of sadness. Those memories of the dead, where they castaways who never got a chance to step into life after their failed initiation? There was no hope that would bring them back; they were souls who had been lost by the pure zealotry and a chance to be free from poverty.
There was a chance I could've died too; but I didn't as I was given one of the most powerful, yet cruel magics in the world. It didn't phase me much, it saddened me. To think I would become a weapon of war in the future left me in complete chaos. For years to come I would have an identity crisis. It was heavily celebrated, but I felt something. It was a curse. A curse that one would understood to be the shortening of life for the glory of power. For years, I would contemplate the future as a Ferrier. My family didn't seem to understand how upsetting this was for me. To see death at such a young age in the form of spirits gave me nightmares.
Was I destined to become a being of horrific terror, or something much more liberating. I hoped. But that was not the case, the world was cruel, even for seven year old me at the time. I couldn't accept that, nor I will never accept that I was a figure of death. The man who could tap one man upon the shoulder and inflict them with the most vile curses. The man who could take one drop of blood and simply make enemies cower before me. Such power feared me, for even people are not to fit to rule in this world. No one is.
As the years went by, I realised that I could become that weapon. I chose not to. Feleri might hate me for it, but I don't care about patriotism. I care about what's right. What's fair.
I didn't pick my poison.
My poison chose me.
I would wake up; I was only a small child of seven years of age. The cacophony of my mother and father arguing could be heard in the dead of night as they battled for the dominance of the family house. It was something I had lived with for a while. My mother and father would constantly be at war with each other as I hid beneath the bedsheets. The smashing of plates, pots and pans would be fairly common, followed by the cussing and slurs outside my bedroom door. It was chaos. They were the ones deciding the fate of my initiation.
It was indeed chaos; there was no order in this family. Everyone had an opinion, everyone questioned each other. They were not on the same page. The marriage between my mother and father was always somewhat strained. A love hate relationship. However, the initiation had to be done, to continue the legacy of the Veir house. However, it seemed to be crumbling, for only my magical initiation could potentially save it.
Maybe.
It had to be done; to be blessed with magic was to be within the high spirits of those in society. However, there was a price I could pay. I could've died young; but I didn't. Instead I have a poison within me, a festering seed that could boil over at any point. It altered aspects of my personality, changed me as I got older. I laid in the dark as I can hear my mother and father bickering and arguing constantly. The chaos; thats what made me have a bitter view on life. My mother would come into my room as she stood their; like a figure of death.
My first initiation was nigh. Her shadow blanketed me like death; it was not a moment too soon that my family had chosen the magic I would be destined to be initiated in. Bane. Reportedly, one of the worse vile magics in history as I was told bedtime stories of the fabled, yet allegedly cruel figures of all, although it was much lighter. The truth had in fact been much darker than some mere children's story. The Scourge. It was the reason why magocratic organisations and religious groups feared the Scourge; for it was a shrouded mass of death, destruction and chaos, capable of enthralling entire kingdoms with blackmail and pestilience, lies and deceit. A terrifying assassin that had lead people to become paranoid about blood on their clothes; it was a being that would bring kingdoms to their knees. The whole concept that one day I could develop into such a vile being. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be a figure of fear and hatred all my life, but it appeared that was the path I was heading. As a young child, such initiation was cruel, but my mother wanted people to fear me.
Why? I was still a child. A child of a Sil'Norai family in Daravin. It had been seen as an empowering gift to have magic. My own apotheosis into this life would be nothing but a curse. I flinched as she would inscribe the mark into my back; the triskelion shaped seed that would spout from within me. At that moment, my eyes would dilate as I am forced to peer into the Dead Realm. The visions were frightening as I saw ghosts. Those who had passed on in such pain; the sorrow and anguish on their faces as some would had memories. It was like looking into the fabrics of time itself as I mastered the first concept. At that moment I was forced to breathe the black cloud of dust into my lungs. Ashes. The malleable dusk cloud entered my lunges, forcing me into a state of drowning.
"You must breathe it all in, Caladrin!" My mother shouted. The fearful process of dying at such a young age was beyond me. I continued to have frightful visions; they had a forsaken quality to them. What was that? Is that me? Am I destined to die? They would taunt me as they screamed in pain as they peered through once again as my body begins to feel some kind of pull into the Dead Realm. Wait. A black substance was created within the palm of my hands as it quivered and oozed in my palm. It had a gelatinous substance to it; it was odorless, sickly looking. It bubbled in the palm of my hand as my mother watched.
"Swallow the Pathos!"
Pathos? The black substance in my hand? As a child, I knew if I didn't I would die; I would continue to be shrouded by the memories of the dead. They screamed their cries of torment; they lamentations of sorrow and more importantly their malicious intent to stop me from succeeding. I took the black substance in the palm of my hand and took it in my mouth, before swallowing it. The memories of the dead would continue to haunt me as it revealed the final fabric of time. Ethos.
The Three Miasmatas.
They were apart of me now. The ashes, the pathos and the ethos. It wasn't at that moment when I vomited a sickly black bile from my lungs as I was relieved. It didn't take me long before I fell unconscious as my mother held me in my arms. "There, you're safe child." She said. I was far from it; I had my first mark successfully brought upon me; but the process had scarred me. My soul had blackened, my resolve had sent me into a constant state of sadness. Those memories of the dead, where they castaways who never got a chance to step into life after their failed initiation? There was no hope that would bring them back; they were souls who had been lost by the pure zealotry and a chance to be free from poverty.
There was a chance I could've died too; but I didn't as I was given one of the most powerful, yet cruel magics in the world. It didn't phase me much, it saddened me. To think I would become a weapon of war in the future left me in complete chaos. For years to come I would have an identity crisis. It was heavily celebrated, but I felt something. It was a curse. A curse that one would understood to be the shortening of life for the glory of power. For years, I would contemplate the future as a Ferrier. My family didn't seem to understand how upsetting this was for me. To see death at such a young age in the form of spirits gave me nightmares.
Was I destined to become a being of horrific terror, or something much more liberating. I hoped. But that was not the case, the world was cruel, even for seven year old me at the time. I couldn't accept that, nor I will never accept that I was a figure of death. The man who could tap one man upon the shoulder and inflict them with the most vile curses. The man who could take one drop of blood and simply make enemies cower before me. Such power feared me, for even people are not to fit to rule in this world. No one is.
As the years went by, I realised that I could become that weapon. I chose not to. Feleri might hate me for it, but I don't care about patriotism. I care about what's right. What's fair.
I didn't pick my poison.
My poison chose me.
