Journal Entry, Obtoxicullous

It was late spring, as I recall when the swamp was sufficiently thawed but still frigid enough to threaten hypothermia to an unwitting traveler foolish enough to spend any time submerged in the muck and filth. Unlike the bogs and wetlands of the south, the frigid marsh is too cold for flies and mosquitoes except for the short summer months, and its waters are too brackish and bitter for most fish and reptiles. The exceptions are monstrous armored sturgeon and goliath toads that grow large enough to devour entire ponies whole. Ferns, moss, and pretty Ice-shrooms blanket the black mud while giant arrow-straight elder pines and twisted junipers stretch beyond the effect of the shorter undergrowth. From their branches grow hanging moss and the silky thin lines of reaver webbing, for the marsh was their land long before man's arrival. To traverse through the marsh is to be under their watchful gaze, for every trip line brushed or broken alerted the entire clan, which laid claim to that patch of mud.

I felt their presence but never spied one in earnest, as they seemed only curious enough to observe my activity from afar but never to engage. That was because of the presence of my staff, though it might have been mistaken for a walking stick by humans by the way in which I held it. To the reavers, it was a warning of magic, and there is only one thing that the reavers hate more than magic--fire. This is why the reaver clans reside in the wet and cold places of the world where the presence of fire is hard to come by and harder to spread. So they take great care to eliminate the threat in any territory they claim. Candles, torches, lanterns, and other hazardous, flammable materials are seized and drowned in the nearest lake, stream, or well. And it is just as well as every reaver is equipped with six red eyes that see just as keenly in the dark as a hawk might see on a clear and sunny day. But even when unable to see, their sense of touch is more than enough for them to live quite happily and traverse even the darkest places of the world, and reaver are just as frequently found in deep caverns, with some clans never knowing the surface world.

But my quest that day was not to study or disturb the reaver that called the frigid marsh home but to find where their territory unexpectedly ended. For as I stated, the reavers fear fire and remove it from their lands diligently, and reaver clans will branch their lands long and wide right up against the territories of other clans and even overlap in some cases. So when I came upon a stretch of the marsh that was oddly deficient of reaver webbing, I knew what I had found. A place where no clan dared lay claim or bothered to venture, a place that was already home to something that haunted the dreams of even the great weavers. A dragon's den.

The entrance to the den was like a colossal gaping maw in the side of the washed-out bank that had once been a large hill before flooding had cleanly swept half of it away. Now it was a wall of mud that more closely resembled the layers of a cake decorated with tree roots, rocks, and several small holes made by birds and other small creatures. But none compared to the enormous empty void leading down into the earth.

But before I could explore the lair's depth, I faced the considerable expanse of icy muck that stretched out between me and the entrance to the dragon's lair. Black dragons were like other dragons and not always pure black, in my experience. What set them apart from other dragons wasn't their coloration but their hunting habits. Black dragons preferred rotten meat and carrion. They'd let their meals marinade for weeks before devouring them. Which was precisely how I'd become aware of this one. My undead followers in the Silent Slough were well past death and into various states of decay, which made them walking appetizers for a creature whose diet was mostly decaying flesh. To be frank, I'd never considered that one of the possible downfalls of creating an undead army was that they would be appealing—or appetizing to anything. But such is life, filled with concealed consequences, and thus I found myself one murky trudge away from confronting the dragon who had been supping on my herd of undead like a wolf to succulent sheep...

***

Ardaik 17th - Homenil, Serellia

"Right. I suppose the basics are in order before we start." Bhalthier thought aloud. He and Artus were alone in the dining room, where afternoon tea was set out. Holding his lessons at tea time was Bhalthier's idea to conceal the true nature of their relationship. It worked well, as most of his staff understood to some degree Bhalthier's unease towards groups larger than two or three, and thus his request for them to be left undisturbed came as no surprise.

"There are three types of magic that are generally recognized—that of the mind, that of the body, and that of the environment. Three clades of magic are by voice, touch, and at will. And three alignments, which are white, gray, and black magic."

Before Bhalthier could continue, Artus swiftly interjected, "Recognized by who?"

"The Citadel."

"Are they responsible for all of the rules and for magic? The classifications? The accepted vocabulary?" Artus wondered quite directly, and suddenly Bhalthier felt like he was being questioned by some grand jury.

"No? Well, yes... In a way, I suppose. The Citadel of Magic was created as a coalition between the elven and human realms to help study the arcane and police mages."

"They aren't the only ones making or upholding these rules, however...are they?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Where did the Citadel acquire all of this academia from? The elves? Surely, not any of the human kingdoms..."

"Artus, if we're going to get to anything beyond politics and arcane theory this afternoon, you must focus."

For a moment, Artus stared at Bhalthier, his expression nearly impossible to discern any emotion from. The prince could have been offended, or he could've just as easily not. "...Apologies."

Bhalthier drew in and exhaled a breath before continuing. "There are also three types of individuals. Type one is what is widely considered a mage. They are born more inclined to magic and usually present with their magical abilities between the ages of five and eleven. The next are type two; they are not magically inclined, they can learn magic, but unless this ability is awakened within them, they could go their entire lives never using it. Then there are the magic blind, type threes. They have no magical ability and can never use or learn magic."

"Then you believe I'm a type one...correct?" Artus commented passively, hand hovering over the tray of crisp biscuits resting on the table between them. "Does that even matter if anyone that's not magic blind could be a mage?"

"It's important because you are a type one, and your magic is at will, making you one of the most dangerous types of mages. You don't telegraph your intent. Your magic is strong and can be destructive. That was why I did what I did because at-will magics can be affected by strong emotions. Imagine a child who doesn't get her way, burning her entire house down or, worse, an entire village."

Artus was again looking directly at Bhalthier and soon withdrew his empty, delicate hand back to his lap. No further queries punctuated the raising of his cup nor his reserved sips of tea, and Bhalthier couldn't decide if he enjoyed that even less than the prince's interrogations of him.

"But not every person who wields a sword is a murderer," Bhalthier added to ease the look on Artus's face. "And just like a sword, one can choose how they use their magic for better or worse. Where things differ greatly is that you can see a sword; it can be piece tied, sheathed, or removed entirely from your possession. It is much harder to do so with magic, and it may be impossible to tell what type of magic a mage uses. That is why learning to use magic is as important as defending against it. So your first lessons will be learning to channel your own magic and defend against magic."

"How am I to even know what magic I have?"

"Magic, all branches from the same four places. Remember I said there are three types? Mind, Body, and Nature. All new mages' first abilities manifest in telepathy for those attuned to the mind. Mending for those attuned to the ways of the body and Clairvoyance for those attuned to both. None of these types are destructive. There is only one beginning magic, and that is Elemental magic."

Artus leaned forward slightly. "I can command elements?" The bit of emotion that had slipped into his voice betrayed a hint of both curiosity and disbelief. "Wouldn't channeling such a thing be dangerous in of itself? Are you not concerned that I may accidentally destroy your manor?"

Bhalthier smiled. "Considering what you did as a child? Yes, I am. I'd be a fool not to be concerned. But I'm not a fan of letting fear decide what I do."

"What do I do, then?" The prince asked, correcting his posture and returning his teacup to its saucer. "How do I begin?"

Just then came the frantic rapping of a beak against the stained glass of the dining room window. Bhalthier rose quickly and threw open the window. The moment he did, in fluttered Eogan. The crow was a mess, cawing, trilling, and growling hysterically as it landed on Bhalthier's shoulder. The Marquis tried to calm his pet as he stuck his head out the window to see dozens more of his trained corvids in the garden, all in the same state, cawing and fluttering around in a panicked manner.

"What's wrong with them?" Artus asked.

"Auganull the Black was spotted on the southern approach...and tried to eat one of my birds," Bhalthier replied as he headed for the door. "Lesson is over for now."

"Auganull the Black?" Artus echoed, hurrying after him. "The dragon that attacked us? And La'Trest?" His words were tight, and he left little room between himself and the Marquis as they traversed the hall. "Which way was he heading? Was the necromancer with him?"