Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.
A/N: This piece was written in a day, using the idea of the first line and seeing where it developed.
I
The first life to be taken was Gorion's. It started with another round of endless lessons. The words 'You must learn to be patient, child!' spoken over and over. This time, years of suppressed frustration exploded into white, first rage then… nothing. He wasn't even sure what had happened; his magic or the knife. The knife on the desk he had used to crush and cut beetles and other components with. A small blade, closer to a scalpel than to cutlery. Cutlery that the visiting nobles used. The Art… could it have been that? It did not matter. Something within him rose up; one moment Gorion was there, and the next, he was slumped against the wall of his cell, his scalp crushed, broken, blood against the stonework. Somehow, the sage had missed the bookcase.
Then he felt himself squeezing something so tightly, he thought his fingers would break. The knife was bloodied; his fingers sticky. A single line drawn across Gorion; he felt alive, filled. Leeching. Siphoning. It was not a slow death. Power filled him. Horror. Sickened by the thrill, the life, the knowledge of what he had done. The hunger awoken inside.
Leaving everything, he fled to the catacombs, the knife still clutched in a grip he dared not prise apart.