He shouldered his pack more comfortably upon his back, the last dying embers of the sun sinking quickly into the inky night sky and catching the brilliant gold of his ample curls. Glancing back at the brightly colored gypsy camp, now gray in the moonlight in the distance, the young man sighed and turned away; away from that life, away from a past speckled with empty gaps. He did not understand himself why he needed to leave, only hoped that his self-imposed exile would explain the hollowness inside of him. Perhaps it would explain to him how to understand the wild, sparkling in his blood; a sparkling that always accompanied with it a deep nostalgia of something he had never known. The night wind whispered cold shivers upon his tanned skin, giving him goosebumps and causing him to clutch the faded cloak around himself more tightly. But it did not faze him. He was used to the coldness, the isolation, the hatred. Every second spent away from that life was worth it. They brought him one step closer to solving the mysteries of his mind, of his blood, of his soul. Yes, he would journey. And then, maybe, he would understand.
And he couldn't know at the time that he was talented in the Art, that through his blood burned the feverish passion of Magius. He couldn't have known that one of his many descendents would be consumed by the wild, ardent blood flowing in her veins. He couldn't have known that her son would use the same wild, ardent blood and go on to become the greatest mage of the Fourth Age, the Master of Past and Present…