Highwater and Glass

The Mourning Mist, Chapter 1 - Oran

Oran Highwater was afraid of death. For all the forms it took, for all the pain it caused, and for all that was unknown in its wake. He recalled witnessing the Archmage's apprentice attempt a spell before an excited crowd in town square. The apprentice had promised to cast intricate forms of solid ice out of thin air. So confident was he in his mastery of the elements, that his shock when the spell backfired was all the more terrifying. An explosion of ice percussed like the sound of shattering glass, echoing over rooftops. And when the falling frost settled, the apprentice and those in close proximity had frozen solid, horror alive on their faces and death evident in their unbeating hearts. The apprentice toppled moments later, fracturing into several pieces after colliding with the cobblestone street. Oran was eleven at the time.

On this day, however, he was seventeen. And now he was the Archmage's apprentice. Well, one of two. How could he forget his fellow apprentice, Horus Morningshire? With a shock of white blonde hair, tanned skin, a sturdy build, and a combative personality, what was left to be forgotten? Oran supposed that was himself. He was the quieter of the two, pale and tall, following behind like a thin white shadow. He had auburn hair and eyes the color of long-brined olives. Eyes that, currently, he was apprehensive to use.

"Just do it already," teased Horus. "It'll last but a moment. Either nothing will happen or something will. And that something will at least be more entertaining than watching you bite your fingernails."

Oran withdrew his pinky from his mouth. Horus was sitting across from him casually in the worn velvet chair of the Archmage's library pretending to read from Archaic Rituals, Volume Two. Directly in front of Oran, on an old oak desk, was an iron birdcage draped in a thick tarp of canvas, covered in crackling black paint. Alas, Oran lamented, there was no bird inside. The cage was home to a rare magical creature carried all the way from the ash plains in the foothills of Mt. Redthorn. Basilisks were bizarre-looking, at least from the sketches Oran had seen in bestiaries. Part serpent, part barnyard fowl, they appeared rather graceless and cumbersome. But few had seen a basilisk in person and lived to tell the tale. For one fleeting moment of eye contact with a basilisk would cast its victim in stone.

"I'm getting bored," Horus added with a half chuckle. "I did it when I was your age, and I turned out fine."

Oran rolled his eyes. As if the one year of age difference had blessed Horus with any noteworthy advantage in wisdom.

"I'm not sure fine is an accurate adjective for that ego of yours," Oran replied.

"No, my ego is questionable," Horus mused. "But I was referring to my physical condition. I am remarkably unmarred, wouldn't you say?"

He flexed his arm. Oran glared at him.

"My dear Oran, am I turning parts of you to stone already?"

Oran looked away from him. At this point, he'd have rather made eye contact with the basilisk. Horus often joked with him this way. Too often. And in the two years they had been apprentices together, the one-sided toying flirtation had only increased. And while Oran felt smart and studied in many subjects in his life, the nature of Horus Morningshire's playful advances remained a mystery.

"If you would kindly shut up so I can concentrate and not die," said Oran, "That would be lovely."

Horus grinned devilishly at him and rested his head in his hands, batting his eyelashes. Oran chose to only look forward, dismissing his towheaded tormentor from his field of vision. He considered reaching for the dusty old spell scroll again, but that was a delay tactic. He knew the words. He had studied the pronunciation. He had spoken the words and seen the effect of their power.

"Ska Na Sokah Hoti Choro Farigma," he uttered.

They exited from his mouth a choked whisper. The language of the Arcaén was ancient and powerful. The syllables themselves tasted like hot sand.