Origins: A GM's Tale

Chapter 1: Sorcerer

I've always liked sorcerers, their magic is simple, yet effective. Too bad they tend to not be the strongest of folk.

-The Game Master

He looked around at his new and sudden surroundings, a rocky coastline to the west and an unscalable cliff to the east. Stricken with panic, he turned in circles, wishing the foreign scene away and a silence to the words still ringing in his ears. Peredhel, Peredhel, Peredhel. Half-Breed, Half-Breed, Half-Breed.

Argon Haldivar jolted out of the memory with a start. Blinking against the glare of the midday sun, he found himself back in the familiar world of the present. Not that the present was any better. Instead of facing a sea of foaming water, he was now facing a sea of wheat, rippling in the breeze. Argon hated farm work, but not for the same reasons as most his age. He didn't love the physical exertion or the scorching heat of the summer's sun, yet those were nothing compared to the memories. Every day, without fail, the mind-numbing and infuriating rigors of life on a farm managed to dredge up some of his past. It wasn't always horrible in the moment, as today's episode had been, but even the memories of grandeur had the same result. An unmistakable loathing for those who had exiled him for the crime of being born. The second reason he hated farm work was currently standing right behind him. A sharp pain erupted across the back of Argon's head. Whirling, he found himself face to face with Mortimer. Mortimer could have been easily mistaken for a troll, both in appearance, and demeanor. Unfortunately, brains weren't very necessary if one had the strength of a bull, and as such, granted him the position of chief farmhand. The job of the chief farmhand was to organize the division of labor every morning. In Mortimer's case, this meant making Argon's life as miserable as possible. Ever since Argon had come to live on the farm with his father, Mortimer had hated him, and the promotion to a position of even a sliver of power, did little to help the situation. Without fail, the chief farmhand made sure the worst possible jobs fell to Argon. Typically, this resulted in him working during high noon while the others took their break, only Mortimer staying behind. Not to help out of course, but to make sure Argon wasn't "slacking off," which was anything less then back-breaking. He never complained however, no one did. Mortimer was in charge, everyone knew it, you just had to hope you were on his good side, and as Argon stared up into the brute's face, he knew he was not on the good side.

"Slacken off again I see," Mortimer said, jeering. "Still not used to having to work for a living are you?"

Argon remained silent, he had found out long ago that it was no use to respond to the chief farmhand's jeers.

"Well Mr. High and Mighty," continued Mortimer, once again coining the nickname mocking Argon's elven heritage, "maybe I just need to remind of your place now-a-days."

Mortimer rambled on, calling Argon a variety of names, and attracting a crowd of farmhands in the process. The brute may have been disliked, feared even by some, but Half-Elves were the universal outcasts, and no one ever missed a chance to view a spectacle at their expense. Glancing at the crowd, Argon sighed. He had gotten used to the insults by now, 16 years of derision did a lot to a person, but when others watched, an inner rage always seemed to kindle. Luckily, Argon managed to keep his emotions hidden.

"One never knows," Mortimer droned on, caught in the attention of the moment and enjoying the crowd, "He may turn out to be a bigger slut than his mother!"

He had crossed a line, and Argon was furious. He could take the scorn of an entire village if he had to, but when someone insulted his poor, sweet, elven mother, he lost control.

"How dare you accuse my mother with such a name!" Argon screamed.

Mortimer laughed, "What, a slut? Don't you try and defend her, we all know she seduced your father, why I bet she..." but what ever he was about to say was lost as something inside Argon snapped. With a yell, he swung his fist, catching the chief farmhand across the jaw. The field fell silent. No one, no one, had ever so much as disagreed with Mortimer, let alone deign to strike him. No one at least, who lived to try again. Mortimer reached up to touch his lip, pulling his hand away with scarlet stained finger tips. He turned slowly, his face filled with a storm of rage.

"You filthy little!" he spluttered, "your gonna pay for that!" A punch that held was more akin to the strike of a blacksmith's mallet that flesh and bone, took Argon in the gut. He collapsed on the ground, air whooshing out of his lungs. Before he could catch his breath, Mortimer's meaty hand grabbed the front of Argon's tunic, and hurled him forward like a bale of hay. He struggled to his feet, and then...

It hit him like a tidal wave, a force that seemed to pound against his very brain as visions filled Argon's mind. A mountain of liquid fire, a burning forest, a towering monster with flame spewing from it's toothy maw, and one name. Ashardalon. Blinking away the images, he watched as Mortimer charged towards him like a bull. Instinct that felt as though it was as old as time suddenly grasped him as years of bottled up hate and rage suddenly exploded forth. Screaming a word in a strange and guttural tongue that was not his own, Argon thrust out his hand, arm ramrod straight, as a bolt of fire shot from his palm like a cannon. A sharp cry of pain pierced the air as Mortimer collapsed, writhing in pain. Argon watched in horror and sick fascination as his near lifelong tormentor was consumed by flames that would not extinguish. Moments later, the screams of anguish ceased, and all that remained were the charred bones of the chief farmhand.

"Witchcraft!" someone shrieked, the cry wrenching Argon's eyes from the cremated corpse before him and up to the ring of farmhands surrounding him.

"Demon spawn!" another cried,

"Cultist!" accused yet another. Panic slowly set in as Argon began to realize what had happened, he had just killed a man, with magic, and was twice condemned by the village's laws. Turning, he tried to run but was tackled from behind by one the farmhands. Kicking free, Argon Haldivar looked back just in time to see the butt end of a scythe descending towards his skull, and the world went black.