Legends of Belariath

Zarias

Introduction:

As it is often difficult to write the first passage of any body of text, I have decided to simply begin by greeting myself, the author of my own personal journal that I hope to carry with me until the end of my travels. I am Zarias Mellioulde, though I usually forgo my family name; A habit from living in a small town where everyone already knows everyone else. I began this log with the intention of learning all I can about the world, for I have permanently left the town of my birth. I’ll explain why in a later passage, for the memory of my self-imposed banishment still holds a lingering pain. Instead, I will detail some of the things I saw along the road today, as well as some of the talks I had with people…

(A page later:)

I don’t want this journal to go to waste… so I feel it’s important for me to write as much of myself and my travels as I can. If in the event something were to happen to me (like, for example, I was to lose my memory) I will have something to fall back on. Besides, I find strange comfort in these simple words and drawings, the culmination of my active self, pouring itself out into a textual medium. Perhaps I will not always remember the emotions that went into these works, but at least I will have the analytical aspect to draw from.

I will start by writing about my life as I grew from a boy to a man. Throughout my days, my father was the one that was most influential to me. Nurturing and supportive, he allowed me to try my hand at several different things to find my calling in life. While I had been helping tend our family shop since I was merely nine, my father always felt that the life of a shopkeeper would never be enough for me. To this end, he would always find little things to occupy myself with. Puzzles, books, anything that required analysis and experimentation. When the shop was quiet, I would sit and work on small puzzles, marveling at how the pieces would form pictures from nothing. Half of the challenge was to discover what it was I was constructing before I could set about completing it.

This analytical nature of mine continued through my early teen years, and well into my adult life. While I was always open to new experiences, I never found my niche in what it was I wanted to do. My father allowed me to apprentice at several of the other shops in town, but I never found any true interest in them. The odd thing was that I seemed to have a natural aptitude for these things. I learned carving, carpentry, masonry, baking, blacksmithing… and so many different types of professions. While I was decent at all of these, I was never quite able to find mastery in any of them… nor did they hold my interest for long. The long repetition would wear on my mind, as I realized that no matter how long it took me to forge a horse-shoe, or carve a chair, the end result would always be the same. It created a void in me that I found difficult to deal with. My father’s store was always my place of solace, even when it was busy. The chance to interact with people and the constant change it represented was a welcome switch from the dull drudgery of menial labor.

But it was when I was sixteen that I truly found a purpose for myself. A small caravan that was moving through town decided to stay over due to weather conditions. A middle-aged man dressed in a cowled robe from that caravan one day came into the shop to inquire into some dry goods for the trip. When he found me with my nose pressed between the pages of a book, he struck up a conversation with me. We talked for a couple of hours, going over local history, terrain, wildlife, just about everything that I had learned from my books.

And it was then that he asked me a question… had I ever heard of magic? When I told him I had heard of it, but had never actually seen it, he became intrigued. He said that he was something of an accomplished sorcerer, and would I like some basic lessons for a small fee? I asked my father, and being as supportive as always, paid the sum and allowed me to learn while the caravan was effectively stranded.

…And through magic was my world truly opened. Unlike anything I had ever had the pleasure of experiencing before, the study of magic made me yearn for knowledge unlike anything before. Unlike the odd jobs I had taken in my boyhood, the pursuit of magic always took me to different and exciting discoveries. It wasn’t long before I felt the first inklings of magic within myself, and my desire to learn helped shape and fuel my progress. In a few short weeks, I learned enough to cast basic cantrips, which left me with a hunger for more and more.

Sadly, the weather turned for the better, and the caravan moved on. My ‘Master’ gave me a basic grimoire to study from, and left me to my own devices. Strangely enough, he left me with spells that seemed more suited for combat rather than general purpose. But, it was all I had, so I studied it diligently until I could cast them with relative consistency.

(A few pages later:)

I’ve decided to commit what led to my leaving home to paper, honestly, so that I can at least look at it from an analytical perspective and see if I am truly deserving of this sense of self-hatred I’m harboring. To explain it, I should start from the beginning as I remember the situation, and then fill in the details after. I remember coming home from my day’s work at Randal’s blacksmith shop. As I was heading down the lane towards my house, I noticed a small crowd milling about, watching something in my backyard. Curious, I hurried my pace and saw the logger, Fredrick, standing over my father with his axe held high, preparing for a downward swing. Without thought or hesitation, I threw the only offensive spell I knew, Energy Bolt, at Fredrick, which struck him solidly in the armpit and threw him to the ground. The local healer, Marcus, quickly hustled over to tend to Frederick while I rushed forward to my father’s side. He was staring at me in surprise, then sighed sadly and told me that he had just managed to talk the larger man down, and that he was just about to lower his weapon. I asked as to what happened, and it turned out that Frederick had simply been having a difficult day, and that his temper had gotten the better of him when he and my father had argued over the price of something in our shop. The other villagers that had witnessed the attack didn’t know what to say… it had been years since there had been any type of violence in the town. My father didn’t know what to say to me, in his face was a mix of anger from me having hurt someone, understanding the fact that I had done something to protect him from what certainly looked like a dangerous situation, and sorrow for knowing he had been the reason of my spell being thrown in the first place. Instead of chastising or praising me, he simply told me to tend the shop while he went for a walk to clear his head. At the time, I remember thinking that Frederick would be back on his feet in a day or two, since the healer was tending to him. …Sadly, it turned out that I was incorrect.

Frederick died two days later from internal injuries that Marcus could not heal. Apparently, my aim had managed to smash major blood vessels and pathways, causing poor Frederick to bleed internally until he finally slipped away in his sleep. While my magic was weak and unskilled… it turned out to be more than enough to take down a common man like Frederick. And so now, the town was divided on what they wanted to call me. Some called me a murderer behind my back, while others understood that I had made a mistake while trying to save my father’s life. Myself, I was devastated. I had never thought it possible to kill another, my magic being more for personal defense than true combat. The ironic thing was that I had learned Energy Bolt with the full knowledge that it had the potential to kill… I just never gave it much thought until it actually happened.

And the days passed, but my internal torment did not recede. Nightmares and a guilty conscience plagued me at night, while the heavy stares of Frederick’s family and friends pressed against my shoulders like a criminal’s penance yoke. The town mayor agreed that I was innocent of a crime, that my actions were justified, and that Frederick’s death was not intentional. While my father was cheered by this news, I was not. In fact, it made me feel worse in a way, for I was receiving no formal punishment for a deed that I was certainly guilty of.

Another day passed, but I could no longer bear it. I told my father that I had to leave, that I was going away, far away. Leaving home and possibly the lands of Ivalice completely. He was rather mute about the whole idea, numb to the thought of me leaving home at long last, but knowing that I was already old enough to be called a man, though I did not feel worthy of such a title.

And so, I left. Taking only a few things, I abandoned my old life for a life on the road. I traveled south, heading towards the heavier wooded areas. Of the surrounding lands, I heard tales of a strange, sometimes harsh land called Belariath. Without any real reason not to go, I headed there, going far into snow covered lands. The days of travel were hard on one such as I, a somewhat sheltered boy unused to the open road. I wearily trudged along well-mapped paths, often waiting in small burghs for caravans so that I would not be left alone in hostile wilderness. Eventually, I headed into the heart of Belariath, to find the often-spoke-of ‘Lonely Inn’.

(The next page:)

The caravan master told me that upon the morrow, we’d be arriving at the Lonely Inn and the nearby town. He said that due to the weather, we wouldn’t be going any further until the snow broke. So, with a bit of anxiety, I wait for the sun to rise… and for my new experiences to begin.

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