Highwater and Glass

The Red Falcon, Chapter 1 - Oran

Autumn was a historically stormy season in Iron Fen. The willow trees shed golden leaves as their branches whipped wildly in the wind. Lightning shattered black skies and creeks flooded onto the carriage routes.

Oran carried warm memories of his mother reading poetry to him at his bedside while rain hushed the thunder outside his window. His favorite poems were ballads of tragic lovers driven to do great deeds. The heroes acted with selfless passion, to an extent he never felt he could attain.

On one particular night in Port Shorishal, Oran was instead reading poetry to himself with the fireplace crackling by his feet. Eloise and Sir Laurie had gone off to bed and he was perfectly alone.

He had never minded being alone. He could, in fact, spend entire days in his own company. After being depleted by the forced socializing of castle life, isolation replenished his energy. Indulging in prose and poetry gave his heart and mind a rest, living through the thoughts and feelings of others.

As he recited one of his favorite verses, he was interrupted by a cacophonous banging on his chamber door.

"Enter," he said with a sigh.

It was the guardsman, Jona, a consummately stammering and awkward fellow. He shifted his weight uneasily as he stood in the doorway.

"Umm, Archmage, sir, your eminence."

"Yes, Jona."

"Your presence has been requested on the eastern wall."

Oran closed his book and cocked his head.

"Outside in the rain?" he asked.

"Uh huh," responded Jona. He tried not to look directly into Oran's eyes. Someone must have perpetuated the rumor that a mage could absorb a man's soul with a single stare. "Magister Larens believes tonight's storm to be irregular. He wishes for you to reduce the ferocity of the lightning and the intensity of the wind."

Oran furrowed his brow. It was an unusual request to be certain. Never had Oran heard of an archmage used to quell mundane natural phenomena. Sure, there were tales of mages in Wyvern Rock who channeled frost to change the course of molten lava, but never for something as pedestrian as wind and rain. Usually Oran was causing the storms, not stopping them.

However, as soon as Oran stepped onto the eastern wall, he could sense the aforementioned irregularity. Rain poured in heavy drops that buffeted the ramparts. The assembled men on the wall were drenched and leaning against the torrential wind that threatened to toss them to their deaths. Most frightful, though, was the lightning. Frequent, fierce, and dangerously close, it struck trees and steeples and set select victims ablaze. The clouds were black, nearly green, heavy and low. There was beauty in its power.

"Highwater is here!" Oran heard a man bellow.

There was hope in his weary voice. Oran would endeavor to give him some. Something about the storm felt magical and old. He could hear Arcaén in the thunder, but could hardly make out the individual phrases.

"Sevhil", he whispered back a word he thought he heard. It was Arcaén for life or birth. The storm responded only with more grumbling thunder.

Magister Larens approached him, squinting beneath dripping wet brows. His long gray beard was matted to his light blue robes. Oran tried to ignore that he could see the old man's nipples and potbelly through the soaked cloth.

"In my entire life," said the magister. He nearly had to yell to be heard. "I've never seen anything like this. There must be magic in it."

"There is," Oran said back to him.