Definite has a minion!

Wolfram the Eastern Rumin

If folks would hearken unto me / 'Twould save a million dead.

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The forest is dark today, with the clouds above as thick as they are with the inevitability of a late afternoon shower. But there is the sound of the chickadee, still, playfully echoing through the open windows of the age-old cottage which has in the dead centre of the forest for as long as any in the area could remember. Unlike the cottage, however, the inhabitant does not share the dwelling's ancient looks (though make no mistake that both are charming on first glance). The man who lives here appears to be relatively young, perhaps in his early to mid-thirties; hair as brightly coloured as the marigolds he grows in flowerboxes outside the front door, eyes such a pale blue in colour that they almost appear silver. There are countless scores, deep ones at that, in the palms of his hands and the pads of his fingers, and thin silver scars that ride up his forearm before disappearing beneath the cuffs of his long green robe, the arms of which are usually rolled up to mid-arm. The man is tall and quiet, pottering in his herbal and floral gardens daily, reading ancient leather tombs at a small table in the garden when the sun is out, preferring to keep to himself the majority of the time.

There are few who know what it is the man does in his cottage in the middle of the forest, let alone on the several acres of land he owns on which the cottage is placed. He keeps his life private, for the most part, and hidden away behind old wooden shutters. He is not particularly well-known in the area of his residence for this reason, but elsewhere in the world, the man is quite well-known for his 'abilities.'

The man is a Master Sorcerer, after all.

In his cottage in the forest, his shelves are all filled with magical tomes, all of which appear to be ordinary, if old, books to the average person, but reveal their fantastic content when read by any with the Gift. Kept out of sight in magically locked cabinets, the tools of his trade wait eagerly to be taken out and worked with, to stir an ordinary object to live with an Animation spell, or to grind and mix some medicinal paste or another. The man enjoys the latter activity the most; Healing is forte.

But the man does not live alone here in the forest. The cottage is not as it appears to be to the ordinary passerby – it has been enchanted with a Glamour, to give the appearance of a pleasant little dwelling to an even older three-storey mansion. It isn't as if he has many 'normal' visitors, anyhow. The sorcerer lives with two others of his academy of study – apprentices, both young men, but polar opposites in not only their Specialties, but in their personalities as well.

Beryllius, a calm and careful student of Ice magecraft, is always a pleasure to sit in the garden with and discuss alchemical formulas over tea and biscuits. The Master is rather fond of the younger two apprentices for his careful attention and indiscriminate sense of judgement.

And then there is Damarion: the elder of the two young men, and without doubt the most ambitious. Though not particularly loud or boisterous, the boy has a far more noticeable personality than Beryllius; more notably a short temper and a lack of self-restraint. Yet there is something about Damarion that the Master cannot puzzle out.

The Master has never been one to rest easy with the Unknown.