The wind was beating hard through a small crack at the top mouth of the cave. It made strange sounds as its spider legs crept down towards him, seeping into his bones and into his heart. His hands were so cold they burned in an eerie opposition to the pain. Blisters covered his fingers and palms, yet he still continued to clench them in a bitter hope to keep them from freezing. The night had consumed all the light and heat from his surroundings, and his only solace in the bleak cave were some dried wood and leaves that had found their way in from the wind.

He had no idea how vast this cave was, for the darkness was all encompassing and he could barely see his feet ahead of him. The minutes creaked by like hours in that cave. When the cold first gripped the mountains it was obvious he needed shelter, and that; at the very least; he was able to find. It was the food and fire that he had not been prepared for. In the deep dark of the cave, it was impossible to know if there were any critters or rodents to find. He strained his ears to find the sounds of scurrying or the light patter of feet, but the damning howls of the wind eradicated even that dimmest of hopes.

It appeared the only thing left for him to do was sleep. At least no one would come looking for him tonight, not in this cold, not with the darkness that enveloped the mountain ranges. He realized that a fire would only draw attention to the cave, so it was no loss that he did not bring the powder needed for an elemental summon. Perhaps in the morning if the cold hadn't abated he would utilize his bare hands to create a flame from snapping flints or twisting wood. Besides, in part it was the dependency on powders by the commons that had caused so much pain as of late.

After deciding he would sleep, he fashioned a small pile of dirt and leaves to lie on. Even if he would have to lose his hands or feet to the bitter cold, he could at least grasp some rest from those wicked winds before they claimed their prize. As he nestled deep in the makeshift bed he turned his head to the crack in the cave where he had dragged himself, and noticed the slight twinkle of the moons. His eyelids eventually began to abate, heavy from the ice that hung from his lashes and as he glared out at that dim moonlight, he was asleep.

The morning rush bellowed through the cave like a maddened troll, erupting in his eardrums. With a startled a cry he clutched at his eyes, for he was blind, his eyes had sealed shut. The ice must have penetrated his lids, he thought, and in anguish he lurched up straight. A splitting sound creased through his lashes, and all at once, they were free. The sensation of happiness quickly subsided as he realized where he was. With a tug he drew himself from the pile and brushed away the dirt from his clothes. They were ripped, beaten, and muddy; he would be lucky if they would last the next leg of his journey.

He checked over his hands and feet, which were still numb to his touch. The blisters were bulging, which he felt was a good sign for at least blood still pumped in to feed them. He took a small rock from the ground and pierced the tip of his big toe, and blood slowly came forth. He let out a small sigh of relief, turned on an elbow and pushed himself up to his feet. He placed his hands in the small of his back and arched forward to release a moan of discomfort as his bones cracked out a night of cold and hunger. At least the morning had brought better weather, for the howling of the night before had gone.

His eyes were slowly adjusting, yet a blurred scene took shape due to the excess dirt and grunge from his sleep. The cave was dim, despite the light that shone through the crack and covered one side of the cave in a sunlit haze. As he peered around and examined the depth of the cave, he saw that the rock was slick as if it had been coerced by water over time.

He reached out and ran his hand down the rock and found that it was dry, despite this texture. He followed one wall down to the ground, tracing the intricacy of the rocks crevasses to the floor. And as he had expected, coating the ground was a thick algae and moss, which under closer inspection appeared to be edible.

He cradled his hands to a dip in the rock and pulled forth some of the green ooze, and lifted it to his lips. It tasted horrible, like wet moldy cheese, but despite that he ate gratefully. His stomach did not betray him, and he did not regurgitate the nourishment. This would at least do for the morning, until he could find some game in the mountains, or even a mountain creek of the S?ora? to fish.

He peered around the cave in a final farewell, and began to climb up the rock face that he had climbed into the night before. He struggled to reach the mouth of the cave, for his muscles were sore. When his fingers clutched the edge of the crack, he pulled himself up and out of the cave.

The morning light enveloped him in its entire splendor; it felt good to feel the sun pour over his body. Aching muscles seemed to relax in its grasp, and he allowed the feeling to flow through him. He looked up to the horizon, and saw that clouds still climbed lazily about the skyline, but without holding any ominous signs of grey like the morning before. At this point he took the time to survey the landscape, taking in how truly vast the Cuimse Mountains were. It had been thousands of moons since he'd come this deep into their world, this far from home.

The dense tree line was just visible a few hundred feet below the ridge he stood on. The trees wore a dark, immense green, which choked out the light that touched its leaves. He knew that under that canopy, that ominous shield, were those dark creatures that would have been sent for him; the death-hounds of the forest. He figured he had at least a day on them, and of course he wouldn't be stripping the flesh of every living animal he came across as they do.

This always slowed them down on a chase, but it also gave them that hunger which would increase on every taste of fresh flesh. His heart dropped suddenly in his chest which caused him to snap back into the moment; he had no time to contemplate what had happened, and he had no time to waste. He turned around and looked up to the tip of the mountain he had climbed. It was probably a few hours of scrambling to get to the peak. Summoning the courage he always held in his heart, he began the terrible climb.

"No!" she screamed, "I don't believe it! Ewan would never risk the village. He loves this place; he was raised to protect us."
The shocking news that had swarmed the village was everywhere; people in the streets were yelling "Traitor!", "Our children! Our babies!", and "The hounds will bring his skull!"
It had been only a few hours since the bodies were found, drenched in black blood, the kind that only a warlock of Ewan's power could produce.
"You have to look at the facts, Aislin", Beathen replied, "There is no other in one hundred flights that could have done this."
"It doesn't make any sense, when has he let us down? When has he been anything but our savior?"
"Look, you know I want to believe the same as you, but the bodies don't lie. By the law of Gealach we had to release the hounds. They had his scent before we saw the crime; it's how it's always been. The warlocks will be here, and the hounds must have his skull for payment and our…" he trailed off, as he choked back the truth.

Aislin turned away from Beathen and starred hard at the dark forest around her. She had known Ewan all her life, he had shown her the source of the powers energy, and how to complete a summoning. In a few more moons she would reach the age of enlightenment and would be able to choose her path. Ewan had promised her he would be there to show her the differences between the dark essence and the light.

She had always feared that one day Ewan would have to leave to assemble with the other warlocks of the western lands, a trip that could take his life if he were named an Elder and refused their calling. Ewan had always told her that he could not lead the life of an Elder, that they were different than he was, and that his magic's source was spiraling in and out of his control… and of that, he could not let them know.

"It just doesn't add up," she whimpered as the tears began to fall, "he loved us all, in his own way."

The three bodies that were found in the Lon Alley were brutally disfigured. Their limbs had been severed and used as a stake to affix them into a dark symbol. The blood that poured from their wounds was a dark thick mass that had hissed and bubbled despite the cold. Now that the warm of the morning had found its way into the village, the smell of rotting flesh was drifting through the Alley. It would only be a matter of time before the other villages would find out, and then the warlocks would come. The payment for a murder in any town or village was to give up all the children of the village to the Lords. They would be taken and sent to the Lords of Ríochas Baile, and used as servants to the Minions.

As always, the punishment would be carried out after the passing of twenty moons. The mothers of the village were scampering around, calling out the names of their young ones. They knew that their time was short, and that they must hold their children close in an attempt to quiet their pounding hearts. The children, as usual, played and ran around the village in a beautiful ignorance that blesses the young.

Yet soon those giant carts of the warlocks would arrive with their veiled beasts, and then the children's innocence would vanish like summers warmth in these arctic days. Their smiles would change into tears and whimpers under the penetrating glare of the warlocks.

In recent times no blood had fallen on the soil of the Northern lands. This was due to the laws passed by the Lords Council, two hundred moons past. When the laws first came into power people doubted their fervor; until the day that a drunken fight turned to bloodshed. The people of the village moved around in silence, whispering about the written word and whether the Lords would ever be cruel enough to enforce them. Then one cold terrible night, the warlocks came, and the cries of the mothers and fathers alike rang out like the shriek of the howler and were heard on the winds across the land.

News of the punishment was on the lips of every soul in the North, which consisted of both the Dearóil and Crua territories. The warlocks had done their bidding; the Lords of Ríochas Baile had made the laws poison in their hearts. The cries from the warlock's beasts bit into the night as they traveled the long lonely roads to the Minions castles. Families forced themselves not to contemplate the fate of their children, some hoped for a kind Minion, however many knew the chances of that hope becoming reality.

The Minions were a jealous, disloyal breed, who only adhered to the Lords as it was their time to rule. As soon as a power struggle emerged they would disappear once more into the Aistear Mountains, and return when the blood ceased to pour. The matters of men did not bother the Minions, for they had been passing through many lands for eons. They believed it was their birthright to claim the scraps after a struggle, and they knew how to bend the victorious army to give them the rewards provided by the crowned champions might.

Some children would be cultivated into a Minion themselves, as it was rumored that many were of men at one time; the darkest of magic had mutilated their physical forms and turned them into a scourge upon the eyes that beheld them. None of this mattered to Aislin. She was in mourning; not for the men that passed last night, but for what Ewan had left her; she was feeling a sharp pain in her chest that was more deep than one caused by steel. Words hung in her throat and would not come; she tried to find explanations, to remove the doubt that was growing inside her.

How could he have done this? At the time when she needed him most, as it was the approaching eve of her enlightenment? He had told her how important this time was for the village, for Ewan, and for her family. He knew how much it meant to her, how she had been working towards this moment for her whole life. Something must have happened, some circumstance she was overlooking.

She tried to roll over the last night she had spoke with Ewan in her mind. He was tired from the Crimson ritual he had performed in the afternoon. His eyes were sunken, and his fingers twitched sporadically under his robe. The only thing strange that she could remember about his appearance was that he was overly tired compared to normal.

Ewan could perform a Crimson ritual in his sleep, molding the fire elements to emerge as giant creatures, wisps of energy, and bolts of light. He would put on an amazing display that lit up the eyes of young and old, while barely lifting a finger; using a few grains of powder where other warlocks would have used full vials.

Yet why would he have been more tired after this ritual? True, the knowledge of powders becoming scarcer and scarcer over the passing moons had created a mood of dark foreboding over the entire village. People were looking to Ewan for answers, for inspiration, however he had none. More than once he had confided in Aislin, telling her that he could not understand why the Lords had not sent more powder to the villages. It made no sense to him; he had seen the vast supplies in the vaults. He had said that there was enough powder to last a hundred more blood feuds. Despite this, the shortage was real; it was seen in the eyes and stomachs of the people. No powder meant no intense heat, no continuous light, to name a few qualities that the powders could harness.

Without powder the commons had to resort to creating manual fire, with splints and rocks. This technique was used only by the Elders of the past, and kept secret from the commons. Despite written word, Ewan had shown the commons of his village, so that they could fight off the hunger and bitter cold that possessed the mountainous villages of the Dearóil range.

Ewan understood a great deal of the Elders vast knowledge, and that was why everyone knew he would become an Elder in a matter of time. They would begin calling for him, using their swift flying beasts to deliver the message. Was this why Ewan had gone? Would he commit murder on commons to fend off his calling? For certain, he would not be able to become an Elder after committing an act of murder.

No. That was too much, she thought. Ewan would never push his loyalties aside for himself; he was not that way. He was proud, a quality that had all but vanished from most villages over the past few hundred moons. The winters were getting longer, and the written words of the Lords were getting harsher. Many spoke on whispered lips that the land needed a brutal blood feud, one that would vanquish the current Lords forever, to create a new horizon for the Northern lands.

It never crept louder than that; a whisper among commons; for they knew the punishment of talking of such things would be death. And death at the hands of warlock was of the most painful, their blood would boil and turn dark as the hearts of the Lords themselves; and it would scar the family name for generations. Their family members would be touched with the Mark, and ousted by the commons around them.

Aislin did not share the vision of the more rebellious commons. She saw a need for laws and governance, for the trials and feuds of the past thousand moons had been due to the lax governance of the Lords that came to power. She just didn't agree with how harsh they had become, nor did Ewan - in fact - much of her opinions have been crafted by the tongue of Ewan. He knew so much, and understood the feelings of both sides.

When Ewan would speak, people listened, not out of fear but out of respect. The Village of Gealach needed a leader like that of Ewan; in fact the whole of the North could use such a voice. But now he had deserted them. He had cursed the village and left them to wallow in their misfortunes. How could he have done this, and why?

It was a long and sharp climb up the mountains edge; he walked very precariously up its incline. The shale that covered the winding goat path was slippery, and more than once Ewan had lost his footing and almost fallen or slid over the edge. The day had grown slightly warmer than usual, but was no comfort at these heights and the wind took every opportunity to smite him as he climbed the path. He had regained feeling in his feet and hands yet this simply spurred the pain of healing. Perhaps having numbed feet would have been a blessing on this treacherous climb, as this would be the longest leg of his journey.

He was not sure how far he had to climb before reaching the peaks, as he was so close to the rock face that he could not see above the ridgeline. The sun was providing ample light all around him, but sadly no warmth came with the light; much like his life as of late. The languid climb that he had begun had given him time to reflect back on what he had left in the Village. What would happen now that he was gone, and after what he had witnessed? As he began to think of the consequences, he began reliving the events that began his journey.

It was obvious from the moment he had turned down the Alley's furthest corner that something was amiss. It hung in the night's air like a bird of prey, waiting to ascend on any passer-by that happened to stray too close. He felt the temperatures bending and changing by terrific levels, from blistering heat to bone-chilling cold. And he knew by the past thirty moons that they were indeed in winter, and that no heat could possibly be caused by the world around him. Dark magic was at work, and it was pressing down hard in the Lon Alley.

He was weary of his own senses, as he had been under much duress as of late, and the Crimson celebrations he had put on moments before had sapped the last of his energy for the day. The Alley was lit only by a few elemental lanterns that dotted the path on interchanging sides. Their light barely touched the ground beneath them, which caused shadows and pools of darkness to seep all down the length of the Alley. At night, many used this alley as a place to meet and gamble with rune stones, or to find temporary sleeping quarters until the morning came. Tonight, there was no-one to be seen, which was especially strange on the night of a Crimson celebration.

As Ewan moved down the alley he became increasingly aware of a presence. Around every corner he was expecting to be met by another warlock, perhaps to give him information or to talk of a meeting with the Elders, but it never came. As he rounded the final corner of the twists and turns that made up Lon Alley, he started to hear a light whimpering. When he came to the straight, he had thought his eyes had deceived him.

Floating ominously above two drunken men was a large silhouette of a man, but it had no solid form. It hung in the air with an ominous ease, moving slightly up and down in a rhythm which matched a steady howl that came from its center. It was draped in black mist, and it would have been completely invisible in that darkness if it wasn't for the light that wrapped around its form ever so slightly. And, of course, the strange noises that came from its movements.

The two men that were clinging to an adjacent wall looked horror struck; he recognized the two men as Dorlan and Baird. They were holding each other and shaking while staring up at the mist. It seemed to Ewan that they were growing incredibly dark, perhaps enveloped by the darkness of the creature under its gaze. The temperature around him was sustained heat, without any fluctuation of cold despite the current conditions.

Ewan snapped out of his trance of amazement, and realized that he must intervene with this dark magic. Although the men appeared unharmed, he did not like this unannounced being preying on his townsfolk. "Dorlan! Baird!" yelled Ewan at the two men
"Come to me."
The two men did not budge; in fact, they did not even appear to hear Ewan's cries.
"What are you doing? Come to me!" he tried again. Yet something seemed to be causing the two men to become transfixed with the apparition. It was beyond fear, beyond horror, they were being held by some form of magic. Ewan began to move towards the men at a hurried pace, not knowing what he would do once he got there.

In an eruption of light and sound, the entire alley flashed in a blinding brightness that knocked Ewan to the ground. The light howling turned into hideous screams and shrieks that bellowed from the creature with unyielding ferocity. The two men did not even blink from the change; however Ewan was forced to place his forearm over his forehead to shield the light from his eyes. He could barely see the apparition now, as the light appeared to emanate from its core.

"Stop!" choked Ewan. It was to no avail, he could now see the men's faces begin to burn under the intensity of the dark magic in front of them. Again Ewan rose, and attempted to move closer but the power of the creature was immense and he could not push forward. He leaned into the light that flooded into him, and tried to stretch a hand forward to break the men's concentration.

Yet it was becoming too late for the men, black blood began to pour out of their eyes and mouth in a deep dark sludge that would usually be a sign of a warlocks magic. Ewan had never seen anyone other than the warlocks summon dark magic at a whim, and they had always relied on elemental dust to conjure anything. This creature was using its own internal strength, much like Ewan had been learning about over the past few hundred moons.

Ewan felt utterly useless, as he had used up his supply of dust on the Crimson celebrations a few hours earlier. And even if he had some, he did not feel that this creature would react to its power. It possessed some power that Ewan had never experienced before; indeed it had never even been documented in the scriptures of the warlocks. This was either a new power, or a very old power.

Struggling to his feet he saw the men's mouths drop in a horrible last scream that burned into place under the direct heat. No sounds came from their lips, but the anguish was written there. Their fingers curled into their palms, and Ewan could hear their bones snapping like twigs under the constriction of their muscles. Pops and crackles were jumping off their skin in a sickly drum beat, which made Ewan feel sick.

And in that very moment a sharp and deafening blast fired out and smashed Ewan in the face. The last thing he remembered as he spun through the air was the heat fading from his body, and the cold beginning to spread over him. Later he would wake, and realize the evidence that sat sprawled in the corner in front of him. It was death by dark magic; there was no-one around but him, the only warlock of the village. Penance would be called for, and he was the only one to blame.

He would have to leave; he would have to find answers. He would not be able to stop the warlocks coming to take the children, it was inevitable. At least if he left he could find answers, he could force the Lords to return whatever they took. Leaving was the hardest decision he had made in a long time since living in Gealach. He had a lot of friends there, a lot of people that looked up to him and sought him out for answers. And he had left them, and they would not understand. To them, he was Ewan, the deserter; the traitor; and that knowledge burned him inside.