Children of the Grove

The wizard Aor continued to distance himself from the Oruan riders with a speed unmatched by purely mortal beings.

Wrapped within an illusory glossing of Earthmagic, the Great Steward would have appeared to human eyes as little more than a passing anomaly of the night - perhaps some swirl of wind and snow given heightened animation by a trick of moonlight and shadow. Within the web of magic, though, the wizard radiated the power of his summoning and the Light of his Authority.

Around him, the voices of the four powers of wood, water, earth, and air swelled into a unified chorus of Earthsong. The glow of woodfire from nearby trees and the radiance of the more-potent, spirit-like magic of glimmer called from deep within the land filled the space nearest Aor with greenish-silver light. The vibrant smells of rich, moist earth and tree buds opening in springtime flooded his senses. Memories of fairer, more lighthearted days of the reborn Earth flowed through his thoughts.

Clothed physically in his black shimmercloak, Aor appeared as an extension of the magic all about him. Amid the fluid blending of the mortal realm with that of the spirit, the Great Steward’s physical attributes echoed with the duality of ancient life and the newness of a budding dawn.

Long white hair trailed onto his shoulders like the strands of morning falling across a darkened land. A closely trimmed beard of white outlined the firm set of his jaw. Eyes the color of sea mist and a forlorn sky stared intently ahead, scanning the horizon. Holding within them the collective anguish of his near-immortal existence, the wizard’s eyes appeared profoundly sad; yet they were filled with a resolute fire born of potent magic and of pressing need.

He carried in his right hand a long, ornate staff of whitewood. Stains of utter blackness, like painful, unhealing wounds, stretched along its length - the result of countless exposures to the Earthrage and from a lifetime of combating the Living Shadow, udum saedor. Upon the same hand glistened a ring of silver crowned by a deep blue gem, as though the essence of the sea itself had been bound within the stone.

Completing the wizard’s possessions there dangled from his side the fell sword Achuron, which the stone-dwelling Adamanthanes had forged for him centuries ago. The blade thrummed like a thing alive, its own sentience awakening in response to the voices of magic around it. With the possibility of being drawn once again, it quivered like a plucked bowstring.

As the Great Steward continued to speed across the land, he could not help but admonish himself. He did not ordinarily make such displays of magic before the eyes of mortal men anymore, save for a few close allies. On this night, however, he had made an unintentional exception, his thoughts having been preoccupied by an overbearing sense of anticipation and foreboding.

The old wound that had been seared into his flesh so long ago flared suddenly to life, smoldering with the prospect of a raging fire being rekindled. The scar summoned from its depths a blaze of bitter memories Aor knew he would be forced to endure yet again this night. He girded himself for the touch of those flames and for the anguish of his loss.