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VISAGE, 
          	        he  is  a  tall  and  slender  youth,  lean  muscles  hidden  under  layers  of  mage  robes.  his  eyes  are  darkened  to  the  point  they  are  nearly  consumed  by  the  black  of  his  pupils.  his  hair  is  long,  brushing  against  the  small  of  his  back  and  always  bound  careful  plaits  and   leather  cords.  though  his  skin  is  paled,  there  is  a  touch  of  a  darker  tone  beneath,  one  that  tells  of  long  days  meant  to  be  spent  in  the  sunlight  and  summer  nights  lying  in  the  tall  grass  beneath  stars.  while  his  visage  usually  remains  cool  and  impassive,  there  is  a  certain  wildness  there  that  cannot  be  tamed.  it's  a  wildness  that  is  in  stark  contrast  to  the  well  dressed  and  civilized  individual  he  tries  to  present  himself  as.  it's  a  wildness  that  cuts  sharply.  it's  blood  on  rocks  and  wolves  set  loose.  it's  shadow  barely  contained  in  the  shape  of  a  boy.     
          	  

THE CITADEL, 
          	         it  is  here  he  calls  home  ( though  he's  hardly  in  residence  long  enough  for  it  to  be  anything  more  than  in  name ).   the  citadel  is  known  well  for  their  studies  of  arcane  and  ancient  magicks.  beyond  the  scrolls  and  aged  tomes,  whispers  carry  rumors  of  artifacts,  of  a  primeval  well  of   power  hidden  here,  of  secrets  even  older  than  the  rocky  crags  from  which  it  is  built.  it  is  here   they  train  their  mages,  and  it  is  here  kings  and  lords  both  near  and  far  ( or  any  with  coin  enough  to  give )  make  their  plea  for  the  citadel's  services.  it  is  here  that  their  mages,  trained  for  whatever  task  is  asked,  are  sent  out  into  the  world.  courts  and  battle  grounds,  curiosities  and  advisors,  an  amusing  pet  or  a  weapon  to  be  used  at  their  discretion.  whatever  is  desired  as  long  as  there  is  a  favor  returned  to  those  at  the  head.  here  he  finds  his  purpose,  a  duty  to  those  who  saved  the  once  savage  child.  who  molded  him  into  the  weapon  he  is  now. 

THE WEAPON, 
          	        a  weapon  formed  in  the  smoldering  ruin  of  war,  refined  under  the  careful  guidance  of  the  magick  practitioners  who  had  so  graciously  taken  him  in.  so  lost  had  he  been  when  they  happened  upon  him:  a  wild  child  of  the  mountains,  feral  magic  following  in  every  wake.  it  was  not  pity  but  potential  that  guided  their  hands,  it  was  not  cruelty  but  caring  that  shaped  him  into  some  form  of  civility.  like  a  blade  upon  whetstone,  every  stroke  sharpening  it  to  lethality.  never  you  mind  what  was  carved  away,  lost  as  an  edge  is  refined,  refined  again.