Tor's rebellion war against the Mindolarn Empire has delivered a crippling blow, the death of Emperor Mentas. Seeking aid from their allies, the Mindolarn Empire turns to the Principality of Soroth, and their society of mages-the Sorothian Magical...
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"If I were to pick the most practical of conjurations I would have to choose the quinta'shal. Some of you might recognize them by their layman's name, Mages' Parasite."
- From ColvinarVrium's Bestiary for Conjurers, page 9
6,438 C.D.
The familiar sight of Soroth lifted a weight from Amendal Aramien. He slumped against the portside rail of the White Duchess, breathing deeply. Waves crashed against the hull, spraying the rail and wetting the sleeves of his charcoal robe, but that didn't bother him. The crashing waves were soothing. Exhaustion overcame him, a result of his nine month trip to and from the Kingdom of Los. Trip was probably not the best word to describe the Aramien Test of Valor. The test was downright deadly, but Amendal had survived the perils of the Melar Forest.
"I'm home at last," Amendal whispered, running a hand through his wavy light brown hair. It was far beyond overgrown, hanging past his ears. That was completely unacceptable. Amendal liked his hair short, neatly cropped. His beard was also scraggly and needed trimming.
Though he probably didn't look it now, Amendal was a handsome man. And he knew it. He often turned heads when walking through crowds or taverns. When his beard was properly trimmed it highlighted his broad jaw-line. His lips were a perfect balance between thick and thin, and women loved to kiss them. Amendal's skin was a light olive—like most Sorothians—which made a great backdrop for his brilliant green eyes.
If Amendal had one flaw it was his nose. It wasn't ugly by any means, but it wasn't ideal either, not with that divot beneath the bridge. It looked as if it had been broken, though Amendal never recalled breaking it in all his twenty-one years. All in all though, he didn't mind the nose. No man could be perfect. Besides, he would rather have a slightly misshapen nose than be short and fat—which he was neither.
Sailors shouted across the main deck, giving orders to adjust the ship's heading. Three deckhands brushed past Amendal, running to the three-mast rigging of the ship. Sails were furled. Lines were tightened. But Amendal paid little attention to their adjustments. He was home, and that's all that mattered.
Amendal shaded his eyes as he gazed to the sky, searching for the sun. That brilliant ball of light was partway through its descent toward the eastern horizon. We'll probably moor in a hour, Amendal thought. That will be three hours past noon. He smiled, pleased with the timing. It was quite fortuitous.
He turned back to the city of Soroth, which spread across the western horizon.
After leaving the Melar Forest he had decided to celebrate his survival at one of the most notorious taverns in Soroth, the Sea Vistonia. Normally, the Sea Vistonia was quite busy, and the mid-afternoon was one of the less crowded times to dine.
Amendal took another deep breath, recalling the savory tastes of the Serinian served at the Sea Vistonia. The yellow-fleshed fish was exquisite, especially when seasoned properly. The thought of it made him grin. I can't wait!
