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The Lay of the Grandmasters Way
by Pyewacket
The Lay of Jerun, Act 2
It was spoken as such by the greatest Draian Philosopher ever known, and was disputably the reason for many of the petty wars and minor "differences of opinion" that broke out between the races of men and elves:
"Noble intent does not suffice, for the short lives of man are plagued by self sacrifice in name of this, yet in the end naught but Vanity was served."
Yet this profound observation of the acts of mankind has plagued me for all my adult years, and there have been many of those. Indeed, more than can be reckoned as true to the observation. More yet than I, Jerun, Grandmaster of Air and Keeper of the Sacred Keys of Tarsengaard Magic School would wish for. But wishes are fickle things, fleeting as a wisp of smoke on the night air, insubstantial and treacherous as fog on a lee shore.
My own wishes proved thus, and thus have I become the one thing I would choose to avoid, had I such allowances in my fate. Yet what is fate, if not the very essence of choice disallowed?
I speak of course, as only a man bereft of choice can, of the fate that led me to become a Grandmaster. Unlike any others who attain such exalted rank within Elemental Magic, it has long been the wont of the elements themselves to dictate who will be bestowed the power of mastery over Air. From the lowliest ship bound novice and storm turners, to the very foundations of administrators and Air masters within the School, not one is self taught in the arts of the Air mage. Our natural gifts and propensities for the element are granted...bestowed if you will, at the coming of age for each of our races.
I was a mere lad of 16 when I received my "gift"...my curse.
Working as a bellows boy for the local smith, I guess I was all hot air, as much as my trade was. But it gave me an understanding back then of how the movement of air affects the nature of things. From the smallest wing beat of a gnat, to the whirling vortices of storm and hurricane, the true power of the elemental forces comes into being and is as swift and violent as an angry god, or as gentle and caressing as a first time sweetheart.
A first time sweetheart.
Alas, that things had not gone the way they did. From the moment I first laid eyes upon the fair elf maid named Rivena, I was smote down as by some inexplicable unyielding ailment of the soul. I yearned for her from that moment on, and even now, even after leaving my mortal ways, I find my thoughts beset by her.
Working away at the bellows, with the rough and ready temper of the smith to keep me in line should my concentration lapse at my toil, I poured my sweat into the air around me. Day after day of pumping the huge leather clad furnace lungs, my lifeblood ebbing and flowing to its heartbeat in an effort to keep its molten eye white as a twilit star. It was this sacrifice of my own self into the very air that altered me, on a level I did not then know existed.
There had been no warnings. No magical portents at my birth. My childhood, blissfully free of strange and inexplicable occurrences of randomized ethereal influxes, passed by uneventfully, from the perspective of anyone looking for signs that I would one day become the greatest living Air Elementalist Draia had had, in its long recorded histories. The Grandmaster of Air.
My "turning" was arranged by those who served the School for which I am now responsible, and whom now serve me, damn them all.
It required one of common birth, who with willing sacrifice, gave himself to the element of air.
A seemingly unusual requirement to fulfill, as no one of common birth is usually so stupid as to sacrifice themselves for anyone or anything. Leave that to the inbred nobles of rank, and right of gods, who rule the lands. The histories of ALL the races of Seridia and Irillion are littered with such noble sacrifice.
For many years, the scholars of the School worked in quiet secrecy, researching ways in which to locate, by means both magic and mundane, the one whom would fulfill the destiny of becoming the leader of the Tarsengaard Magic School. Many years in vain, though, for all their searching was to the air, as a leaf in the wake of the wind.
That is, until Lustra became involved.
A quick mind that one had, and as such, she perceived that the search was failing because the words carved into the Obsidian Arches of the halls of the School were taken at their most literal and bloodthirsty sense. Not that she would be one to baulk from the spilling of innocent blood, but she DID hate the futility of failure. No doubt that is why she rethought the idea of what the sacrifice entailed. Putting the years of one's youth into the service of air, now that was truly an inspirational translation of the texts of prophecy, and it earned her my undying hatred and subsequent banishment to Irillion, to explore its vast lands and peoples, in the hopes that she would meet her timely demise.
But of course, being an educator of sorts as I may now be perceived, a little diplomacy was required for such a move against her. Gone are the days where I can openly vent my frustrations out on another in public, no brawling in village taverns anymore alas.
This is why she was "promoted" to be liaison with the peoples of Irillion.
Had I known that she would not only survive what I and those in my inner corrum felt to be a death penalty, but that she would flourish and succeed in her role beyond even the wildest reckonings and imaginings of the Seridian scribes, I would have sent another in her place, one more worthy of my "affection" such as it is. Probably Neru, with his unparalleled knowledge of the ancient languages. Or perhaps some other flunky from within the Schools hierarchy, gods knows there's enough of them.
But then, I would not have had the pleasure of parting Lustra from Gaildren.
Their unspoken love is a puzzle to me, for the differences between them are so similar and familiar, and yet..and yet...
And yet, they are both accoladed and adored by all who know of them! The gossip surrounding their special friendship has captivated an entire continent. It is exasperating beyond my endurance how these two could be so loved and welcomed wherever they ventured.
As I think back now, to the day when the Air claimed me as its own and I became the Air itself, I cannot imagine how it is that my own life was not so favored as theirs has been. In those days I had a tryst with Rivena, secretly meeting at the one place we could have complete security from prying eyes of both elf and man, and the wagging tongue of either race.
Beneath the foothills of the mountains surrounding the western shores of the Riven sea, below the outskirts of Grahm's Village, we met. The kindly dwarf that sheltered us gave no reason as to why she did, and only smiled wistfully when we asked why, replying that it was for Time to decide if love lasted and not the will of those who thought they knew better.
Ha! How wise that now seems.
But she knew more than I, this earth dweller, of what was to be and what to come. For whilst I may have met with my love Rivena in that place, so did Rivena meet later with her to learn of things that would take her on her own path to Grandmastery of the elements. Yet still, her kindness to us when all were against us will live in my mind for all the ages of my tenure here.
Without her, I would not have had any happiness or known of the love I felt for Rivena, nor had that love realized in truth.
That last day, as Rivena left, the old dwarf stayed back from accompanying her as usual to the edge of Tirnwood. Talking in a low voice, she told me then that my time with Rivena had come to an end, that Rivena was destined to follow a path laid before her and that this destiny had been decided because of me. Me?!
I swore at her foolishness. Told her that there was nothing I had done or said that would turn Rivena from me. She then told me that it was not what I had said or done, but what I was to become, that was to roll the stone dice of fate in this matter.
As I stood there, I felt the tingle of the air around me pricking my skin, as a warning of a distant storm can raise the heckles of a cat. But my anger at her words, burning in my ears, made me ignorant. How was I to know then, on my birthday, my bloody Birthday, when all happiness should be mine, that my fate was being thrust upon me from afar?
For whilst words and tempers flared in the foothills, so air and magic flared in Tarsengaard Magic School, as the power of the Prophecy was unleashed.
I remember those final words, even now. The meaning of course was irrelevant, unintentional coincidence perhaps, or the humors of the Gods themselves enacted by life, but the power behind them was enough to seal the spell and the Prophecy, and to end the life of one whom had shown kindness to me for the sake of kindness itself.
"By my eyes, may your essence be scattered to the four winds of Draia," I said. "May your words never be heard by any mortal again and your dust scattered to Time itself!"
And thus, with my life's sacrifice to the air, I sacrificed another to its everlasting nature, and made my destiny complete.
Be wary of your words, for the one who is haunted by them most will most likely be you.
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