This is my first attempt at writing a story set within the Everquest game
world of Norrath so please be gentle with me. I know the chapters are kind
of short but that's due to me intending to write little and often. I'll
amalgamate them, as I get a little further in. Also, Sony Online
Entertainment Ltd owns the setting and all related place names etc.
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Ever since I can remember I wanted to study at the famous Academy of Arcane Science in Freeport.
That's not really true but it's how these stories are supposed to begin. I can pinpoint, to the day, the moment I first took an interest in the magical arts that were to become my calling. My Calling and, as I often think of it, my curse.
I was born and raised in one of the many villages that dot the Commonlands. A vast expanse of arable land, west of Freeport. My parents were simple folk who ran the Inn in the village square. Unlike many of my later companions, the ones you may have heard tales about, I had no real legacy to live up to. In fact I think the most adventurous thing my father ever did was water down the ale when a party of thirsty dwarves from Kaladim was in town. Not that I'm disparaging him or my mother. They were good people who lived worthwhile lives. They were comfortably off, as is to be expected from the keepers of the only Inn for fifty miles in any direction and I had a happy childhood.
Being raised in the Commonlands breeds a natural curiosity in all but the meekest of children. Straying from the safety of the villages is forbidden for youngsters by order of the town fathers, of which my father was one. The lands beyond the outer gates are wild and untamed, filled with a large roaming population of fearsome creatures. The Orcs of Clan Deathfist also make their homes to the north of the Commonlands, Close to the evil citadel that is Neriak, where the dark-elves and, more recently, also the trolls make their home. Of course, all this exerts a terrible fascination for the children of the villages and regular attempts were made to sneak past the guards and to explore a little of the surrounding countryside. On those occasions when we managed to break free (feast days when the guards were sleepy with mead were always good) we would make our way to the top of the large hill that bordered our village and just sit staring into the distance. Sometimes someone would brag that they could make out the lights of Freeport off in the distance or that they spied a party of dark-elf scouts moving stealthily across the plains. All nonsense of course but enough to stir our imaginations and long to see the strange lands we had only heard about from travellers passing through our village.
I digress though and let my mind wander (as men of my age are wont to do). The day I discovered a yearning, and perhaps even an affinity for magic was the day the players came to town.
Every year, at highsummer, for as long as I could remember a troupe of performers had visited the village. They sang songs, performed japes and played games with the children. It was the highpoint of the year and we anticipated it for months. As soon as the last winter snows had left the ground, children could be heard whispering about the players. How long until they were coming? What strange creatures would they bring? To us the performance was as the greatest shows of Freeport or Qeynos. Every year we thought we should explode with the waiting but every year they came again, eventually. Time has a habit of passing slowest towards those things we anticipate the most as my mother used to say to me.
This year though was an unusual one for they brought no animals. We looked and looked, craning our necks to try to catch a glimpse of the cages that normally travelled on a cart behind the performers. But there were none. Not a Spiderling, nor a bixie. Not even a giant rat or two. This year they had with them something (or someone) even more special. This year they had a Magician.
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Ever since I can remember I wanted to study at the famous Academy of Arcane Science in Freeport.
That's not really true but it's how these stories are supposed to begin. I can pinpoint, to the day, the moment I first took an interest in the magical arts that were to become my calling. My Calling and, as I often think of it, my curse.
I was born and raised in one of the many villages that dot the Commonlands. A vast expanse of arable land, west of Freeport. My parents were simple folk who ran the Inn in the village square. Unlike many of my later companions, the ones you may have heard tales about, I had no real legacy to live up to. In fact I think the most adventurous thing my father ever did was water down the ale when a party of thirsty dwarves from Kaladim was in town. Not that I'm disparaging him or my mother. They were good people who lived worthwhile lives. They were comfortably off, as is to be expected from the keepers of the only Inn for fifty miles in any direction and I had a happy childhood.
Being raised in the Commonlands breeds a natural curiosity in all but the meekest of children. Straying from the safety of the villages is forbidden for youngsters by order of the town fathers, of which my father was one. The lands beyond the outer gates are wild and untamed, filled with a large roaming population of fearsome creatures. The Orcs of Clan Deathfist also make their homes to the north of the Commonlands, Close to the evil citadel that is Neriak, where the dark-elves and, more recently, also the trolls make their home. Of course, all this exerts a terrible fascination for the children of the villages and regular attempts were made to sneak past the guards and to explore a little of the surrounding countryside. On those occasions when we managed to break free (feast days when the guards were sleepy with mead were always good) we would make our way to the top of the large hill that bordered our village and just sit staring into the distance. Sometimes someone would brag that they could make out the lights of Freeport off in the distance or that they spied a party of dark-elf scouts moving stealthily across the plains. All nonsense of course but enough to stir our imaginations and long to see the strange lands we had only heard about from travellers passing through our village.
I digress though and let my mind wander (as men of my age are wont to do). The day I discovered a yearning, and perhaps even an affinity for magic was the day the players came to town.
Every year, at highsummer, for as long as I could remember a troupe of performers had visited the village. They sang songs, performed japes and played games with the children. It was the highpoint of the year and we anticipated it for months. As soon as the last winter snows had left the ground, children could be heard whispering about the players. How long until they were coming? What strange creatures would they bring? To us the performance was as the greatest shows of Freeport or Qeynos. Every year we thought we should explode with the waiting but every year they came again, eventually. Time has a habit of passing slowest towards those things we anticipate the most as my mother used to say to me.
This year though was an unusual one for they brought no animals. We looked and looked, craning our necks to try to catch a glimpse of the cages that normally travelled on a cart behind the performers. But there were none. Not a Spiderling, nor a bixie. Not even a giant rat or two. This year they had with them something (or someone) even more special. This year they had a Magician.