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Player's Guide Places People History Beliefs


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It was his 12th year. He was growing into manhood. He had inherited the size of his father, and the brains of his mother.

His brothers had left for training in a local barracks, but he was not interested. What interested him more was the urn in his parent's bedroom. He was forbidden to touch it, but the curiosity was quickly overcoming him.

Walking as quietly as he could, he tiptoed to the mantle in the room. A feeling of power emanated from the red glass container. It made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Each step was an eternity. As he reached out, a sense of foreboding filled him.

The top off of the urn, he looked inside. It looked like ashes. Putting a hand inside to test the contents, a finger brushed the soot. Powdered glass mixed with fire wrapped itself around his ever-plunging fingers.

The room spinning, he fell from the chair he stood on. The room went black as pitch.

When he woke, he heard the sounds of his parents returning from their private study. Gathering his robes about him, he stood, and quickly ran back to the library in the room outside the bedroom.

He would have to investigate further at a later time.

Unable to explain his sudden curiosity, he buried himself in studies, merely a ruse until the next time his parents were both gone.

From the childhood of Blake

From the journal of Blake Nergal Ashton

Contributor: Brandon Alexander