“They are so noisy.”
Tharos watched the camp of the treasure hunters from the city battlements, his hair and cloak fluttering in the winter night breeze. Their noisy presence could be heard throughout the city, and the massive fires they lit made them visible for miles. It seemed like they were openly challenging anyone who would try to stop them from claiming their prize. Tharos felt like a fool 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 put in danger. Even though he lacked the ability to reseal or kill the creature himself, he felt compelled to at least try to slow it down. He pondered,
“Am I merely delaying the inevitable?”
From his vantage point on the battlements, he closely monitored the camp, his amber eyes scanning 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 and his mouth water, tempting him even as he remained 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 behavior oddly contagious, evoking a sense of familiarity. It was a comforting realization 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, which would come later. After Tharos or his companions finished vomiting in finely crafted wicker baskets or on the cold stone floors of dwarven holds, 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, could be seen as a form of slavery, albeit metaphorical. It raised the question of whether a life without freedom of choice was truly worth living. This was a question that Tharos and many others must have pondered at some point. Though Tharos had long forgotten, if he had remembered, he might have found irony in the fact that the first real choice he made in life ended up costing him everything. The consequences of that choice still reverberated through the centuries.
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, in their beliefs, until the very end, regardless of the joy or pain it brought. Tharos exemplified this, recognizing that the power of choice and the determination to see it through were the most potent abilities an individual could possess. It surpassed any weapon, any Armor, any spell. Yet, few truly comprehended the magnitude of the power they held.
As he began to reflect on those times, he detected a strong magical presence. It was clear that this energy came from a living being rather than a spell or magical artifact.
“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 magical energy they possessed, which was not very impressive. 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 cunning or powerful magical items. Tharos had to consider this possibility and plan, accordingly, leveraging his slowly returning powers as his 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 arch mage of the City Oteap 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. While some of Tharos’s abilities could be replicated with magic or Chi arts, there were others that were unique to him and could not be imitated. These powers allowed him to achieve great heights but also isolated him from others, creating a fundamental gap between him and his people, much like a cow not understanding a fish or a fish not understanding a bird.
Including those who would have been his equals. But wasn’t that the price of power, the price of being different, the price of being unique? Because 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 and unfortunately leading 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 power that corrupts people, but that power allowed people to be their true selves. It just happened that most people’s true selves were more akin to a wicked beast, rather than the mask of civility they presented. 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. He instinctively reached for his head to soothe the pain and saw 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 Tharos’ attention was the mysterious figure’s unique way of moving.
The person’s movements reminded Tharos of the graceful way Elves moved, but there was something off about it. Tharos 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 remains 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?
