Chapter 1: The Questor is born

I grew up in troubled times. These were the days of Magria, the ancient and evil sorcerer-priest of Foul Kash, Lord of Nightmares. From the rocky island of Elsevi, where the strange and potent gases rose from the hellish maws of the earth did Magria spread terror and war across all of the Yellow Sea. Even to the great river Rawon did his captains come with their bands of pirates and brigands.

The Lords of Cador, that northern city situated at the joining of Doira and the Rawon, made a drastic decision after the city barely resisted the Onslaught of the fifth Coming of the Raven. For the first time in the history of the Legion the Peers of the Silver Dome accepted the sons of common men into their ranks.

My father was a tailor, a good tailor, and his spouse a good tailor's wife and mother. They were proud people, and the large sum of money necessary to enter their second son into the Legion was as nothing compared to the standing they would get amongst their friends and in their neighborhood.

And that second son, that was me. My name is Logarth, I have seen twenty-two winters, and for the last six of them I have been doing grueling exercises, getting beaten up with an innumerable variety of weapons by cranky old arms masters, and trying to understand things called tactics and strategy. There was a lot of talk about something called pincer movements, but I never really grasped it.

My parents, and those of my masters who did not detest commoners, wanted me to become a Peer of the Silver Dome. I, on the other hand, wanted to enjoy good gambling, strong wine, and beautiful women. And for six years that conflict persisted. I was an indifferent student, as indifferent as they allowed me to be, and no-one really expected me to amount to much. Usually one would be made a Peer after five years of training, but I and a few other were still Pages with no hope of receiving our Swords anytime soon. I ignored the sneers of the masters, I proudly admit, but I am also ashamed that I made lightly of my parents' desire that I finish.

It was not until that one night at the beginning of those short, bright summers we have up in the High North when I had that dream, that dream that changed my life forever. I was standing at the brink of an abyss, an abyss I knew contained all the worst terrors of the world. Behind me were all that is good, everything I loved. In my hand I held a sword. Of dark, polished bronze it was, and along its blade there flickered black flames. The experience left me with a mixture of anger, determination, and wonder, but most of all I felt a dreadful urgency. An urgency that compelled me to give up my life of sloth and pettiness and go out and face the abyss.

The next day, just after the morning meal in the great hall, I approached my Law master - a thin, tall, bitter man who detested me more than most others. I do not know why I spoke to him, or why I was so glaringly rude as to give him the short bow of an equal, but my mouth formed, almost unbidden, the words: "I have been Called. I must depart."