Once upon a time, there was a little village near a swamp.

Within the village lived a family of three: the Carpenter, her husband, and their little boy. The family of three lived on the edge of town closest to the forest, and every week they would journey together into the forest to collect the wood to build the village up strong. The family of three lived harmoniously in the village with the other townsfolk, and the little boy made friends with the Crier's daughter, and the Noble's son, and the Blacksmith's daughter, and the Tailor's daughter, and the Watchman's child, and the Miller's daughter.

When the family stayed home, the Carpenter worked hard, hammering and assembling. Her faithful husband aided with running errands and cutting wood. The little boy followed at his heels, all too often his head lost in the far off worlds of his daydreams (for which his father would scold). Sometimes the little boy would stand outside the Madame Witch's house, and attempt to peak in the window (for which his father would scold). Sometimes they woud stop at the Bakery, and sit together eating one of the Baker's fresh pastries before returning home with their gains. Sometimesthe little boy would walk down the road from their home to the Miller's house, and share his daydreams with the little girl there (for which the Miller would scold).

The village was full of life, and the family of three was happy.

One day, when the little boy was still very little, the Carpenter's faithful husband left. The little boy did not understand why; only awoke one day to his father's empty chair at the table in the morning, and his mother laid low with grief. Other villagers had only seen him follow the streets out of town. He did not return by sunset that day; nor the next day, nor the next.

The family of three was down to two.

The little boy had decided his father must have been called away for some great purpose; for some great journey, for some herculean task, for which he would be needed to save their tiny village and beyond.

He wasn't sure if it was enough, but he liked to think, maybe, he had a good reason.

The Carpenter did not speak of it; she did not let the villagers see her grief, and every week the family of two would make the journey into the forest to gather wood to build the village up strong. The Carpenter worked hard, hammering and assembling, and the little boy learned to cut wood. He journeyed into the woods alone, to gather wood, to look at the plants, to steal away in the treehouse with his friends before returning home past curfew (for which the Carpenter would scold, though only out of worry, and the little boy knew this was true.) But he would always return home with handfuls of berries and herbs, and at the end of the week the Carpenter would take what they had left and make it into a tea around the fire.

The family of two survived, for they were hardy and strong. The little boy got stronger as he grew, his mind grew sharper as he aged, and his spirit grew restless.

All too often his mind was lost in daydream; he listened to the stories of the Crier's daughter, pored through the books in the Father's collection of literature, and decided their tiny village was dreadfully dull. Truly, he would not understand why his father would be called away to save such a boring place, and threw the entire idea out altogether. He read stories of great sorcerers and clever illusionists, dreamt of dark spirits and secret orders arcane and mystical arts that enriched the world, and no longer cared for his lost father.

There were no such magical conspiracies and mystical spirits haunting their streets, but there were two witches in town, of whom the boy vaguely knew. There was the Madame, whose fingers could mend wounds and who had helped see to the health of almost every child in the village upon their birth. And there was the Old Hag, the Madame's sister, who lived in the swamp and surrounded herself with animals. He wondered if they perhaps were part of some magical order, or had ever fought as some King's warmage, but that was neither here nor there.

He wanted to learn-- he wanted to know, and the Father's collection would not sate him.

He went to the Madame first, and asked her if she might teach him her ways. He went on his best behavior, he didn't touch her trinkets or linger in the doorway, and spoke in earnest; but she would not. She turned him away, told him his hands were not made to mend nor heal just because his mother could create. He insisted, he plead, and she looked down her nose as she turned him away.

She took in the Tailor's daughter for her 'prentice, and for this he tried not to be upset.

He went to the Old Hag next, and asked if she might teach him his ways. He didn't touch her pets without invitation or linger in the doorway, and spoke in earnest, stood his ground; but she would not. She turned him away, told him his heart was not soft enough to nurture, that his spirit was fickle and destructive. He insisted, he plead, and she closed the door as she turned him away.

She took in the Blacksmith's daughter for her assistant, and for this he tried to be happy.

Thrice over the young boy was left to himself. He tried deeply not to be hurt for his friend's great fortune, but all he could think was how they would be too busy to gather in the inn with the books they had borrowed from the Father's collection late into the night past curfew, how he had simply not been good enough to be chosen, or to be special, and how his chest swelled with jealousy and envy and anger that he did not want to feel towards two dear friends.

He decided he didn't care.

(He wondered if something was wrong with him.)

He went back home, and made the journey into the forest with the Carpenter to gather wood, and came home with berries and herbs in his pockets.

The family of two survived. The young boy's head sank from the clouds, though not for long.

The young boy returned to his books. He listened to conversations and stories at the inn. He watched visitors in the church, and travelers down the path. He listened to more tales from the Crier's daughter as they crafted their own, and recounted his fantasies to the Miller's daughter, and conspired with the Noble's son. He found his own luck.

One day, the Miller's waterwheel had got stuck, and the household could not puzzle out how to unstick, for there did not appear to be a problem. The young boy hopped into the river to search below the currents, and there he found his luck; a large, old book lodged betwen a section of the wheel and a rock in the riverbed. He pulled and pulled, instructed the Miller to push the wheel justs so, and the old book came out, and the wheel turned once more. The Miller promised him an extra pastry the next time he went to the Bakery for his trouble, and the young boy went home with the soggy old book.

This was his own fortune.

The soggy old book was eerie and haunted, rife with something foreign and fearful that the young boy only found exhilirating. Touching it filled him with unfired energy, and it perfectly matched the idea of old witches and wizards and arcane arts in his mind, much more so than anything he'd seen in the Madame's or the Old Hags homes. When he opened its pages its burst out with fire, weak and quickly quelled, but at the same time mystifying and enthralling. And within its pages he found his world.

He found inside it magic. He found mysticism and war, secrets and battle, an ancient kingdom that dwelled with the waves, an archmage that stood before barbarians and invaders, that defended their people and stood with the general and destroyed those who would dare cross them. He found blood and runes, a war, visions and armor, waves of fire, blights, darkness, lights, tricks, sounds-- all this and much more he had yet to understand, and yet to learn, and yet to know.

The young boy did not need the witches. He had the kingdom, and the archmage; he had his own fortune, and he journeyed into the forest alone, to read the spells, to learn, to know on his own.

He learned to cast fire from his hands; he learned to create his own armor; he learned to cast lies.

The young boy would become a mage. He got stronger as he grew, his mind grew sharper as he aged, and his spirit grew restless still. He studied and studied, and learn until he knew, and until one day where he was certain everything had changed.

A spirit came, and the young mage was certain everything had changed. Barbarians arrived at the village. A travelling wizard, wizened and strange, gifted him a ring and a secret the young mage did not yet understand.

The village was suddenly full of strange winds and new happenstance, and the young mage stood in awe of what his eyes could now see, the spirit in the plant and the magic on the winds, and colors of the world he could have never conceived. And he told the Crier's daughter, and the Noble's son, and the Watchman's child, and the Blacksmith's daughter, and the Tailor's daughter. Their little world was changing, and he was determined to not be left behind.

But the Carpenter promised him to the Miller's family, and the world seemed to close around him as dread fell upon his chest.

And so, the young mage once more struck out to find his own fortune. One day, when he was still very young, the Carpenter's son left the village with his friends, following the streets out of town.