Notes of the philosopher, astronomer, mathematician, historian, and thief Ea of Arthaven

The crown of a king, the diadem of a queen, these are heavy things, we say. It is not for us to judge them, not for us to look at them even. After all, we are the origin of vileness. They are the house of splendor. The old art provides mages with a natural aptitude for science and reason, our natural enemies. So it is for our own good that we must be separated, segregated. We must cut off the human from the divine. And if we won’t listen, the Volanian Guard, a unit solely dedicated to keep humans from interfering with our superiors, offers us their wisdom free of charge with the means of steel and whip.

This was my first impression when I visited Doomsbane, back when I was a thief against the finger-twitchers. The world was tattered then, still processing the destruction the last human kings had wrecked. It was a time of unrest and uncertainty. But I digress.

The sickness I felt for the mages before I met him led me to begin my errand of chagrin in the most formidable of the city states. The capital of the Valley of Virtue and center of magic was where I stole scriptures of the Beautiful Speech, the ancient tongue of mages.

After the destruction of the ancient world, lore became scarce and thus all the more valuable. So I sold the folios of old ken on the black market and acquired a small fortune that I invested in my fulminant expenditures, where we spent the nights drinking and dreaming of a different future. But where moderation should’ve been my cautioning guide, greed took overhand.

And when I stole something of such value it could buy me a palace, I met him.

I was so afraid of him as he reached for me, I am not ashamed to admit it. After all the stories that I’d heard about the mages–Aurians in particular, I felt my heart pounding on the door to my head. Literate beasts with human bodies and eyes of the gods. Creatures that thrust out energy like spitting geysers. Walking siege engines. How would the Aurian retaliate my theft? Would he unleash himself on me or would he call on the Volanian Guard and watch, pleasuring himself while they whipped me to death?

I had heard of him, of course, before I reached Doomsbane. He was already famous as a child, after all. At the age of six, magic had claimed him (six to ten years before it usually happened). He was destined to become great, a magical genius, but now I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start anew.

The brothel in Shroud Alley: that’s where I saw him, my eternal drinking buddy, for the first time. Where I decided to rob him of his greatest possession.

Astaros of Doomsbane. The most powerful mage of our time, the prince who gave up his royalty, the general of the blood march who won the civil war, fathered the human assembly and ended magical segregation.

At the age of sixteen he fucked and drank mostly.