It was early morning, the sun was high in the sky, it's rays filtered through the trees in the Elderwoods, illuminating the forest floor. Lush green grass blanketed the whole floor, rustling with every subtle movement.
Weaving through the gargantuan trees, were two children, maybe five or six years of age. One, the boy, his hair white as freshly fallen snow, cascaded smoothly down his young back like flowing silk. His eyes, as silver as frost on winter branches, glimmered with a weight far beyond his age.
The other, an equally young girl, was much less glamorous, hair matted with weeks old dirt and infested with lice. Her skin covered in something that could not be named. But it was her eyes, almond shaped, golden in color like the morning sun, they were stunning.
"Listen carefully," Veythar said. "In the world of the Arcanes, there are seven schools. Abjuration, divination, evocation, necromancy, transmutation, enchantment and conjuration.
"A-b-j-r-a-t-i-on?" The word sounded funny to her young ears, "What's that?"
Veythar continued moving, "Abjuration is the art of protection, by projecting one's spirit to the source, in this case Arcana, to manipulate it. You are specifically able to create strong barriers and so on. It is basically a school of protection. And the lifeline of most arcanists. Conjuration is the art of summoning and forming contracts with creatures from the twelve realms. It's useful... most of the time."
"Divination... " he made a disgusted face. "Divination deals with gods who you borrow power from. They could be evil gods or good ones, it doesn't really matter. Whatever you choose is your right."
"Evocation is what elemental Arcanists use to conjure force, fire, lightning, ice. It is very powerful, very destructive. And one of my specialties." He said, a smile adorning his face. "Next is Necromancy, that's about life and death... and since your so suicidal, that might be up your alley."
Eosira laughed, putting no weight on his words
"Now Transmutation," he stopped, picking up a piece of rotting bark. "Transmutation is the art of altering matter and energy into... any form really, all that matters is your skill." He said as a spell circle wove to life just above his outstretched palm turning the piece of bark into steel.
"It's what I used when I cast [Zephyr's grace]. I used it to alter air resistance, making it safe for us to land. Some even use it to turn water into wine."
"Lastly is Enchantment... It is my main focus and specialty. And that is because it deals with the comprehension and manipulation of the soul, of the spirit housed in all living beings."
When they had exited the small grove beside the cliff, Veythar and Eosira were met with a small litter of children draped in furs, playing swords with sticks. One boy, clearly the tallest of the litter, eyed them almost instantly.
"Hey!"
Veythar ignored them, "[Zephyr's grace] is what we call a zero spell. By weaving the source with your spirit, you are essentialy able to cast as many spells as you want without getting tired physically. Mentally, however is another story entirely. But that comes at a cost. Destructive spells such as firebolt or blast come with a fixed level of power."
"Hey!" The boy shouted again. "Don't you know the grove is off limits? The mayor said..."
Again, he was ignored. Veythar had no interest in children. Especially when he was educating another about a subject that he held dear to his heart. Before his fall, Veythar had been an Arcanist of ill repute. He was merely a thousand years old, maybe seven or nine years old in human terms but within his father's kingdom, none could match him in comprehension.
He had been born a cripple, blind to the world and unable to summon the elements. And for nearly two hundred years, all he had known was darkness before the blessing of the Wyrd brought light to his world. Opening his eyes to a world none could fathom. Not his brother, his sister nor his mother and most certainly not his father.
It was through the Wyrd he was granted sight, through the Wyrd he was granted knowledge and through the Wyrd that he was able to escape his torment.
"Hey can't you hear me!" shouted the tall dark skinned boy, Aster, they called him. "The Mayor said wolves prowl the area!" Stomping his foot at being ignored, he huffed and scampered his way to his friends.
Eosira was relieved he was gone.
"Are you listening?" Veythar turned to the girl.
"I am!" Eosira hurriedly replied.
Looking at her averting her eyes, he clearly didn't believe her. Following her line of sight, he glanced at Aster and wondered if the two had a history. He hadn't seemed to recognize her, but Veythar doubted anyone would, the girl truly looked homeless.
He shook his head deciding to drop the topic.
***
Old jack was ravaged with worry these past few moons. The ashes had settled over the horizon, where that dreadful bolt, so red it seemed to bleed, struck the earth, sending waves through the world that still haunted his dreams. Some nights, he could not sleep remembering the dreadful day.
"Has the Hell spawn returned? " He muttered to himself before breaking into a soft chuckle, reminesent of the passed down by his father and father's father. "I'm getting old." He mumbled as he watched the sunrise. So intense was it's glare, that the cool morning winds came as a relief.
Old Jack was on his thirteenth decade and he was not getting any younger, or so his daughter always reminded him. With a toothless grin on his wrinkled face that told more stories than most could understand, he staggered to his feet with the help of his cane.
"Those Arcanists ought to be here by noon to investigate," he said looking at the location where that dreadful bolt had fallen. He was about to turn when a familiar shout came from the directio of the forest.