Reallia Ashbar

I shall attempt to scribe the order of events that led me to reside in Ta'Vaalor. Note that some names of people and places have not been mentioned, as those who would wish to do me harm may care to vent their anger upon others.

I was born in a small town a bit from Ta'Illistim. I was the eldest of two children, the other being a younger sister. My father worked as the scholar of the town, answering the populaces questions, and drawing a salary from the town coffers. My mother was a housewife, taking care of me and my sisters. Being a learned man, and because his profession was based upon knowledge, my father was a devout follower of Fash'lo'nae. He impressed upon me to be interested only in knowledge, the consequences to others are of no matter. I grew up in the philosophy. Although I have since stopped serving Fash'lo'nae, I have still kept to my father's precepts.

At about the age of seventeen I accompanied my father to the neighboring village, to purchase some books. Although he had spoken on this subject before, since this was the first time that I had been so far from my home, he absent mindedly started speaking about the other creatures of Elanthia. At first he spoke to the less intelligent humanoid races, goblins, trolls, kobolds, and so on. Then he moved on to the more civilized races. He explained that the elves are the greatest race, and dark elves are the greatest elves. Half-elves are mongrels to pity. Pure elves are too haughty, and the Sylvankind lack in common sense. Tree-huggers, all of them. Humans, he said, never recognized what they're actions may cause, they never see the big picture. Giantmen have halfling sized brains spread out over a giant sized body. Halflings are never serious. And dwarves - dwarves, he explained, are the worst "civilized" race of them all. Greedy, rude, hairy creatures. Can't think beyond their next gem. Their clerics are a bunch of fakers, as are their healers. They smell badly, they get drunk, and they can't speak straight. Dwarves are to be despised. They are to be told their place, even forcefully. Dwarves are inferior.

We arrived in the town, and my father went off with the mongrel elf merchant to bargain over some tomes. I was left to explore the village. Specifically because my father never allowed me an alcoholic drink (it interferes with one's thinking) I visited the local tavern. I walked in, and sat down in a corner, and watched the proceedings. Among the many patrons, I noticed, was another mongrel elf. By the look of his clothing he was a wizard, and by the look of his manner, he was quite drunk. I also spied two dwarves, apparently having a drinking contest. And in the far corner I noticed two dark elves, the older one sitting calmly as the younger one's gaze raced about the room. They intrigued me, and I kept my watch of them. After a few words between them, the elder drew out a dagger, and hurled it across the room at the wizard. It pinned the wizard's hat to the wall behind him, accompanied by a loud "Thunk". The wizard raised his bleary eyes, somewhat focused on the dwarves, and, through his slurred speech, cast a spell. Just as one of the dwarves started drinking, the liquid burst into flame. He swallowed it, and coughed up a small fireball. Both dwarves stood up, and headed towards the wizard. Suddenly, as if encouraged by the small quarrel, every member of the tavern started fighting. In the chaos, I noticed the two dark elves slip into the backroom. Quite clever, I surmised. Two thieves. Very, very clever. I then hastily left.

I didn't speak of this incident with my family, as I did not want to admit my guilt of going to a bar. Only after two years had lapsed did I mention it, as I felt that I wouldn't be punished, and it was an interesting anecdote. As I recounted what the mage spoke, I gesticulated as he did. As if by magic, a spark flew from my fingers, towards my sister. Before anyone could react, she was on the floor, convulsing, and eyebrows seared. I was quite surprised, and a bit scared. My father ran out to call a healer, as my mother rushed about, getting a rag, wetting it, and so on. I just stood in my place, stunned. She was healed, the healer left, and then my father turned to me. He asked me to concentrate upon the wooden table, and repeat what I had said, with the same motions. I did. The table was scorched. My father smiled. With that it was decided that I should go to a magical college. Apparently I had the talent. We settled upon The Magical Institute of Wizardly Studies. I chose wizardry as opposed to sorcery simply because it is more practical. And because sometimes, when a sorcerer casts a spell, nothing happens. When a wizard casts a spell, there is always an effect seen, even if not the one desired. It looked cooler. I left my home and my family, and headed out. I arrived, six to a room, thirty to a teacher. Cramped quarters. Halflings. Horrible. It was a six year program, and I was determined to stick it out.

One of my roommates was a dark elven girl, also my age. We became fast friends, eating together, studying together, playing together. For the first year I didn't learn any magical skills. Weaponry was concentrated upon. I became quite proficient in swords, daggers knifes. Although I have not kept studying the use of there weapons, I can still hold my own with a dagger. I was taught that one's magic may fail at times, and without a weapon, one may fall. Also, sometimes a small knife is more devious then a fireball. Currently I carry on my person about five different daggers or knives.

The second year we started learning spells. Six months into the second year, we were told that as an exercise we will be dropped in a mildly dangerous area, which we will have to fight our way out. Our enemies will be some skeletons. There were six of us, me, my friend, and four others. About twenty minutes after our escort left, we were attacked my some skeletons. We held are own, until we heard an eerie wailing. Greater ghouls. I recognized them from some paintings. We ran. I found myself running with my friend, the sounds of screaming coming from the others. Suddenly a ghoul materialized in front of me, and swiped at me with his claws. I fell to the ground, bleeding. My friend hastily cast a spell at the ghoul, distracting it, and pulled me to my feet. We continued to run, with my friend every so often picking me back up. We finally arrived back at our school. I was healed, and found out that we were set up on purpose. Only the strongest survive. I survived. Yet, even now, I am loathe to come near any undead.

My studies continued, and I became quite proficient with magic. We were taught never to show, or even have any emotion. It clouds one brain, and prevents correct casting. No emotional ties to anything. No tears. No smiling. Nothing. Finally, our six years were up. As a final, we had to fight another member of the school, and win, to earn our diploma. I stepped into the ring, waiting for my opponent. I knew it before she walked in. My friend. "To the death," said our teacher. My friend looked stunned. Never were fights to the death. Usually first blood, or until one surrendered. Occasionally there were deaths, but never on purpose. And in her hesitation, I slew her. I pounced upon her, and slit her throat, with a dagger I still carry around with me. No magic. I still can remember her open eyes staring in surprise at me, as her life drained away.

I graduated. I made my way to Wehnimer's Landing, as I assumed that that would be the best place to practice my skills. There would be a great many wizards there, and I could learn my watching. And I did. I flourished. I grew in power, and in wealth. And I never forgot my teachings. Indeed, I did not care for any others, knowledge is the sole importance. I sold my soul for it. After a few years in the Landing, I had to hastily leave. (I would rather not say why). I left with only what I carried, taking with me a human as a guide. I reasoned that the best place for me to go would be Ta'Vaalor, as it is furthest from the Landing. I made him swear that he would not mention my whereabouts. And he did. It does not matter anyway, as his throat was later torn out by a grey wolf. (Do not ask me how I know.) Before going to Ta'Vaalor, I decided to visit my old hometown. Many things were the same. I knew that my father had died, and my sister had gone on to adventure. I walked into my house, and greeted my mother. Amazing. I had no care for her at all. I remembered when I had once loved her. How foolish. She was sitting in a chair, babbling to herself. I exited, and was told by some neighbors that she had lost her mind. How, I do not know, but I did know that she would rather die than live like the way she is. Knowledge is everything, and without that, what do we have? I walked in, and killed her, using the same dagger I used to kill my friend.

That dagger had taken on a new meaning for me. If there is anything that has any sentimental value to me, it would be that. Sometimes, I take it out to see the light glint off of it. It symbolizes all of my teachings, and how I have grown. I arrived in Ta'Vaalor. I could deal with elves far better than humans, and there were less dwarves here than any other place. I didn't move my locker immediately, as I was afraid that it was being watched, and didn't care to be tracked. Now I have, and it appears that Ta'Vaalor will be home, until I am forced to leave.

Reallia

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Last updated: January 19, 2003.