At the time before life, when the
earth and sky become two from one, before blood and thought filled
the land, a spark was born. A fire named Noreal. The flame to ignite
all life. A white fire that rolled high across the planes bringing it
with it the first seeds of man. A fire to seek out truth in the
darkness, and a fire to fuel the burning of our souls. Some are born
with the fire, others must seek it out, but in the end all will
return to flame.
High Father Amethen read from the ancient scrolls by the white light of the ever-burning candle. The chamber was cold and dark. The white candles mounted in the corners of the wide stone room cast little light, and made the shadows dance with every movement. If not for them the room would be too cold to bare, but they gave off a surprising amount of heat. Sweat trickled down Timyn's body.
He knew the writings by heart now, but somehow hearing them read always seemed new and refreshing to him. He moved carefully through the ritual motions, using the curved wooden blade as part of himself. Its weight was key to his balance. Shifting from left to right moving the sword in slow spirals around his body he let the words wash over him, and refresh his physical weariness. His muscles ached and his body was thin. His ribs stood out like the pillars of the city wall. And yet this life was far better than the one he had left behind.
Timyn was born with the flame. Timyn was a regular bonfire. One has to live on the streets a long time to gather enough filth and scars to hide a fire so bright. Timyn's gifts weren't discovered until he was 12 years old.
The Skylight Temple in the furthest north district of Corlace was a home for those blessed with the light of Noreal. One of the high priests saw the fire in Timyn's eyes while pushing him out of the way as he begged for pennies in the slums. They brought him in, washed him up, and saw him for what he was. A blessed son. Snow pale skin, hair the color of heated bronze, and eyes that sparkled the deep blue the sky's ether. There was some debate about whether he smelled of cinnamon cake or fresh apples. They gave him a clean room, and two meals a day. They taught him from the holy scrolls for four hours a day. They trained him in the way of the sword and bow, and watched as his flame grew stronger, and his light filled all those around him.
High Father Amethen read from the ancient scrolls by the white light of the ever-burning candle. The chamber was cold and dark. The white candles mounted in the corners of the wide stone room cast little light, and made the shadows dance with every movement. If not for them the room would be too cold to bare, but they gave off a surprising amount of heat. Sweat trickled down Timyn's body.
He knew the writings by heart now, but somehow hearing them read always seemed new and refreshing to him. He moved carefully through the ritual motions, using the curved wooden blade as part of himself. Its weight was key to his balance. Shifting from left to right moving the sword in slow spirals around his body he let the words wash over him, and refresh his physical weariness. His muscles ached and his body was thin. His ribs stood out like the pillars of the city wall. And yet this life was far better than the one he had left behind.
Timyn was born with the flame. Timyn was a regular bonfire. One has to live on the streets a long time to gather enough filth and scars to hide a fire so bright. Timyn's gifts weren't discovered until he was 12 years old.
The Skylight Temple in the furthest north district of Corlace was a home for those blessed with the light of Noreal. One of the high priests saw the fire in Timyn's eyes while pushing him out of the way as he begged for pennies in the slums. They brought him in, washed him up, and saw him for what he was. A blessed son. Snow pale skin, hair the color of heated bronze, and eyes that sparkled the deep blue the sky's ether. There was some debate about whether he smelled of cinnamon cake or fresh apples. They gave him a clean room, and two meals a day. They taught him from the holy scrolls for four hours a day. They trained him in the way of the sword and bow, and watched as his flame grew stronger, and his light filled all those around him.
His fellow
students didn't care for him though. Rich noble sons who had their
room and training paid for by the wealth of their fathers. Families
who wished to redeem themselves by offering their children to the
life of the White Fire. No one knew why the church gave the sickly
Timyn the same lessons and lodgings for free. It was even further
beyond them that he surpassed them in their studies, and passed every
test he was given.
In
the Chamber of Lights he defeated them all at swordplay. In the
courtyard he proved their superior with bow and arrow, thrown dagger,
curved axe and crossbow. He didn't excel at his histories, or any of
his studies of the sciences, but he worked hard and still finished
each lesson. His piers made him feel outcast, and that was fine with
Timyn. He remembered what it was like sleeping in cold alleys and
feeding on dead pigeons while they slept in their soft feather beds
and grew strong on bread and cream. He was never looking back
again.
On the first day of his 20th winter the high priests brought him to the highest tower and killed him. They forever destroyed the life of Timyn of Corlace. They cut the flame into his chest with curved blades, healed him with the holy white fire, and gave him his true name. He was reborn, Malcear Balfier. Now was his time to go out into the city, and spread the good of Noreal. Heal the sick, defend the weak, and prove the value of religion and morals in this dark time of political conflict.
They gave him a steel blade, an oak bow, and the midnight robes of a priest adorned with the silver flames of their Goddess. They warned him of dangerous magic gathering far beyond The Wheels. They told him that even the bright light of Noreal can create a long terrible shadow. Then they closed the doors on him, with no intent on ever opening them again. He was on his own now. For the first time since he was a child he was back on the street of Corlace with only his meager belongings and his tenacity to survive.
Malcear slung his bow over his shoulder, tucked his last few coins into his boot, pulled his hood over his bright copper hair, and set out into the streets, quickly blending with the crowd, save for the warm light he cast only few could see.
On the first day of his 20th winter the high priests brought him to the highest tower and killed him. They forever destroyed the life of Timyn of Corlace. They cut the flame into his chest with curved blades, healed him with the holy white fire, and gave him his true name. He was reborn, Malcear Balfier. Now was his time to go out into the city, and spread the good of Noreal. Heal the sick, defend the weak, and prove the value of religion and morals in this dark time of political conflict.
They gave him a steel blade, an oak bow, and the midnight robes of a priest adorned with the silver flames of their Goddess. They warned him of dangerous magic gathering far beyond The Wheels. They told him that even the bright light of Noreal can create a long terrible shadow. Then they closed the doors on him, with no intent on ever opening them again. He was on his own now. For the first time since he was a child he was back on the street of Corlace with only his meager belongings and his tenacity to survive.
Malcear slung his bow over his shoulder, tucked his last few coins into his boot, pulled his hood over his bright copper hair, and set out into the streets, quickly blending with the crowd, save for the warm light he cast only few could see.
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