They are so noisy.
Tharos observed the camp of the treasure hunters from the city’s southern battlements, his hair and cloak fluttering in the winter night breeze. Their noisy presence echoed throughout the entire city, with their cheers and victorious screams bouncing off every wall. The massive fires they lit glowed brightly, and thick black smoke erupted into the air, making them visible for miles even in the cool and clear night. It seemed as though they were openly challenging anyone who dared to stop them from claiming their prize. Tharos felt foolish for taking the bait, but he was determined to stand his ground, no matter how many enemies he faced or how much blood would be shed. He knew he had to stop them to prevent the world from being endangered. Even though he lacked the ability to reseal or kill the creature himself, he felt compelled to at least try to slow it down.
Am I merely delaying the inevitable? He pondered from his vantage point on the battlements, he closely monitored the camp, his amber-colored eyes flashing with focus as he scanned the area like a hawk. He kept count of the people entering and exiting the camp, the flickering torches, and the enticing scents of alcohol, meat, and vegetables that were unfamiliar to him. The aroma made his nose twitch like a wagging dog’s tail, and his mouth watered like a rushing river, tempting him even as he tried to remain vigilant.
His usually expressionless face transformed into a slight warm smile, a stark contrast to the silent indifference he typically displayed. The scent awakened long-dormant appetites in him, stirring feelings he hadn’t experienced in centuries. It was a sensation he was unfamiliar with, or more accurately, one he had long forgotten. As he observed the camp, he found their lively behaviour oddly contagious, evoking a sense of familiarity. It was a comforting realisation that, despite the passage of time, some things remained constant. The scene reminded him of numerous Dwarven diplomatic events he had attended.
They were more like casual drinking parties rather than formal diplomatic functions or serious talks behind closed doors; those more serious talks behind closed doors would come later. After Tharos or his companions had finished vomiting in finely crafted wicker baskets or being passed out cold from drinking too much beer on the solid stone floors of dwarven holds, that was when the real discussions would begin. Despite the enjoyment of binge drinking, merrymaking, and sharing stories over a warm hearth and fire, Tharos never felt entirely at ease with such gatherings. Even at the Elven Diplomatic functions he attended, which were more to his liking, he preferred to be in his study reading books or engaging in philosophical debates about ethics and morality. Perhaps it was his phlegmatic temperament or the way he was raised that made him feel this way.
A life guided by esoteric principles, in harmony with the natural forces of the universe, is considered by many to be perfect. Doubt is removed, and a sense of belonging and purpose replaces it. If you are nothing but a sword, then not being a sword would be a life that goes against your very being, nature, and spirit. However, this could also be seen as a form of slavery, albeit metaphorical. It raises the question of whether a life without freedom of choice is truly worth living. This was a question that he and many others like him must have pondered at some point, unable to find a true answer. For there was no man who could fight their very nature, even if that nature itself was to be the eternal contrarian. To be in conflict with yourself was a paradox of all paradoxes.
Although he had long forgotten this fact, as he only remembered the most vague of details, the irony wouldn’t be lost on him. The first real choice he made in life ended up costing him everything: his life, his love, his friends, and even the fruits of Civilization itself. The consequences of that single choice are likely still reverberating throughout the past centuries, serving as a lasting reminder of both his greatest success and his greatest failure. This was the true essence of choice. Whether for better or for worse, one had to remain steadfast in their decisions and beliefs until the very end, regardless of the joy or pain it brought.
The greatest power that the race of man possessed was greater than any magic, for it was a power that not even the gods themselves could subvert. It was the power of choice, the ability to choose one’s own fate and the determination to see it through to make one’s will a reality. In his experience, these were the most potent abilities a person could possess, surpassing any weapon or armour forged by human hands. Yet, in his experience, few truly comprehended the magnitude of the power they held within them, including himself at the time. As he started to reflect on those times, he began to sense something magical—a presence that felt alive, rather than just a spell or magical artifact. It was clear to him that this magical energy emanated from a living being.
They have a mage with them, though not a particularly powerful one. he thought.
While he couldn’t fully gauge the mage’s abilities, he could sense the amount of Mana they possessed, which was not very impressive. It was at least below average. However, the mere presence of a mage was a cause for concern, regardless of their low Mana capacity. While having a high Mana capacity was advantageous for becoming a great mage, it wasn’t the sole determinant of one’s talents and skills in magic. Mages with lower magical potential often compensated with great cunning, diversifying their skill sets or acquiring powerful magical items. Tharos had to consider this possibility and plan accordingly, leveraging his slowly returning powers as an advantage. However, without knowing the type of mage he was up against, any advantage he had was purely theoretical. Was the mage an alchemist, an elementalist, a necromancer, or a new type of mage that had emerged in recent years? These were all questions Tharos had to ponder.
As he concentrated on the camp, he could feel a strong sense of excitement in the air. This was something he could sense even without his basic abilities. However, he struggled to pick up on anything else amidst the overwhelming feelings of excitement, joy, and happiness. It felt like trying to navigate through the depths of the ocean. Despite recently regaining this ability, it was weaker than before and caused him more stress and strain. It was possible that centuries of disuse had significantly weakened his abilities, but this was just a guess.
The Archmage of the City Ormazd was unable to understand the true nature and source of Tharos’s powers, as they were unlike any magic or chi arts known to him. Even after rigorous and invasive tests, he couldn’t determine if Tharos was a chi arts user since it typically took between ten to twenty years for someone to master the basics, and Tharos had no teacher. Even the most gifted students couldn’t learn or pick up these sacred arts without a teacher. They were also certain he wasn’t a mage, even though magic ran strong in his family. They didn’t detect any Mana within him, not even the faintest trace, and what they were able to detect was something they had never seen before. Tharos, as far as he was aware, was unique, and while some of his abilities could be replicated with magic spells or chi arts, there were others that were unique to him and could not be imitated. These powers throughout his youth, if he was being honest, allowed him to achieve great heights he wouldn’t have under normal circumstances, but also isolated him from others, creating a fundamental gap between him and his people, much like an ox couldn’t understand a fish nor a fish couldn’t understand a bird, including those who would have been his equals. The only one among these equals who fully understood him was his friend Vartark, who, like himself, was also exceptionally gifted and powerful.
Wasn’t isolation and loneliness the price of power, the price of being different, the price of being unique? Despite popular opinion, having these things didn’t always lead to happiness. In fact, it was quite the opposite. There were many cautionary tales about heroes and villains alike having these traits that unfortunately led to their either glorious or tragic end. The other commonality that these stories shared was the popular sentiment that power corrupts. Tharos always disagreed with the message that power corrupts. While there was some truth to it, he felt it was an oversimplification. In his experience, it wasn’t just power alone that corrupts people, but that power allowed people to be their true selves. It just happened that most of these people’s true selves were more akin to a wicked beast, rather than the mask of civility they presented themselves as. Because very few people had the willingness and desire to truly explore the depths of the self, and those who did often didn’t have the ability to accept what they found. Because often what was found was quite disturbing. For the human heart was a heart full of contradictions. Contradictions that Tharos himself knew all too well.
After finishing his thoughts, Tharos suddenly felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, as if someone was drilling into his skull. He instinctively reached for his head to try to soothe the pain, and as he did so, he noticed a hooded figure entering the camp at the edge. This wasn’t unusual, as there was constant movement in and out of the camp. What caught his attention was the mysterious figure’s way of moving—it was perfect, almost too perfect. The person’s movements reminded Tharos of the graceful way Elves moved, but there was something off about it. He then observed a young boy, likely a slave due to the collar around his neck, also noticing the mysterious figure. The boy followed the figure deeper into the camp, and Tharos lost sight of both of them.
That kid is rather brave. After a few more minutes, he notices the young boy returning and beginning to doze off again, while the mysterious figure remained out of sight.
It must have been nothing then. That’s a relief. Well, I have gathered all I can for now about these treasure hunters, now it’s time to play the waiting game.
Tharos would begin to turn around, his cloak billowing in the breeze. Just as he was about to leave the battlements and return home, a sudden sensation washed over him. It wasn’t his powers at work; it was a different kind of feeling, almost like a gut instinct or intuition. If he had to put it into words, he would say that this was just the start of something. The question remained: the start of what?
