He watched the elven party mount their horses from a safe distance. It seems his ward was doing the trick. That, or they simply weren’t expecting and looking for anyone to come back. The Knight was among them, still bound as a captive. He could at least assume the elves weren’t working for the Aretans. Though, Marcus himself would have thought twice on untying such a belligerent man even if they were allies, with how vile and racist the Knight was. He continued scanning their party. The Magus didn’t appear to be amongst them. He held out hope that perhaps he did escape. Maybe he was somewhere in the village, too, observing these brigands just like Marcus. Corellian was a master Magus, surely he wouldn’t have been put under by this band of hellchasers. When they finally began marching their horses off, Marcus made sure to note their direction before entering the prison. Perhaps they left some of the Knight’s equipment or some clues left behind, he surely might need it if he were to head after the elves.

Marcus entered with caution, wearing of anyone the elves might have left behind. But there was nobody there. Just smoke. The Knight’s gear had been taken as well. If nothing, the bandits were thorough. Before he left, something caught his eye under the desk when Corellian had been working. His Master’s staff. Corellian surely wouldn’t have left that behind, it was a great source of power and protection. His stomach turned and worry struck him again. He grabbed the staff and rushed down the stairs to the holding cells. Perhaps, in his haste, Corellian just forgot it. That [i]had[/i] to be it.

But he was too late. Marcus could already tell from the stairwell seeing him, lying battered on the ground. Marcus approached his Master and rolled him onto his back, dropping to his knees next to him. He could feel his body trembling with the pain of loss and rage. He had been like a father to Marcus. He grew up under his wing for the greater part of his life. He tried to speak, but no words came. Nothing but a weak groan. His throat was tight and his head was pounding. His head was swimming; he couldn’t think straight. 

Corellian’s body was already cold. Eyes fully devoid of life. The wound was terrible. It might have been a quick death, but it was so… Barbaric. A killing blow under his chin like that would have required them to have gotten so close. The thought of someone killing his Master and watching the life drain from him made his stomach twist and his body quake even harder. His eyes were pressed firmly shut as he tried to hold back the stream of tears that just kept flowing. It made his eyes burn worse from the smoke. His chest ached from his heavy, pained breaths. The smoke was finally taking its toll on Marcus, but he couldn’t leave, yet.

 He sat there on his knees before his fallen master for a while, unable to process everything that had happened this morning, head swirling and heart ringing in his ears. He bent over, pressing his forehead to his master’s. First the village and now Magus Corellian. He didn’t even have time to mourn. Those elves were surely already getting a head start on Marcus. And they had the Knight. They had everything. They took everything. Except the Magus’ staff.

It would be their downfall. Marcus would assure them of that. If they wanted to spill blood, he would eagerly oblige now. His hands tightened around the staff, turning his knuckles white. After saying one last prayer for his Master, he shakily rose to his feet and wiped the moisture from his face. As he ascended the stairs, he began contemplating how he would even track and keep up with these elves. They were on horse and probably a good stretch ahead of him by now. He had no supplies. Surely they must have a camp nearby they intended on returning to before they departed. That would be his only hope. Now if only he knew what he would do when he found them. His master’s last warning still echoed in his mind. If he got too caught up in the moment, he might end up losing his head.

He was soon out of the oppressive confines of that prison and back out in the street. The already rising heat felt just as oppressive as the jail. It made the still lingering smoke cling to his skin, only making him dirtier and more uncomfortable. After a brief fit of coughing, overpowered from the thick haze as the fires finally began dying down, leaving smoldering wreckage everywhere, he pondered how exactly he would catch up with the brigand elves. A noise pierced the quiet crackling of the village. A whiney. Could there still be any of those elves left? Surely they wouldn’t have reason to leave one of their members behind. As if in response to his musings, a single, stubborn horse trotted around a corner before him. 

She was small horse, just large enough to accommodate a rider of his size. Her coat was a deep chestnut color with white rings at its ankles, though the smoke had turned them a dirty shade of grey. He recognized this horse, she had belonged to the former stables. In the time he spent at Muon Pond with his master, most of their time had been dedicated to finding and interrogating the Knight. But what free time he found himself with, he often spent it at the stables. It [i]had[/i] been quite peaceful there. The stable hands were friendly and allowed him to ride their horses. He had even spent some time riding this horse. She was friendly, well-tempered and experienced, easily making up for his failings as a rider. If he recalled correctly, this horse’s name was Mischief. Must have been quite the trouble maker when she was younger. 

For whatever reason, she seemed to have returned to this wasteland. Marcus slowly approached the horse. It watched him wearily with its hazel eyes, but remained stubbornly before him. He placed a hand gently on the side of its neck. Its eyes softened, relieved not to be being chased off with swords or fire anymore. Marcus mused to himself. He now had the means to pursue. Perhaps this horse, too, sought revenge. As he lifted himself awkwardly on the unsaddled horse he spoke to it, “Don’t know why you stayed in this damned hell, but I’m glad you did all the same.” He doubted the creature understood what he was saying, but it was comforting talking to it all the same.

As he spoke to the horse, he felt the slightest rumble beneath his feet. Or had he imagined it? No, there it was again, fainter, as if the tremor from a distant earthquake. This area didn’t get seismic activity as far as he could recall. It was strange and unsettling. He couldn’t think what it could be. A third, even weaker vibration only served to reinforce his confusion. He didn’t have time to worry about it, not when the elves were putting even more distance between them with each passing moment.

He steadied himself with a hand in Mischief’s mane before gently spurring her on with his heels. “Come on, Mischief, let’s get out of the dreadful smoke and find those bastard elves that did this.” The mare heeded his command and took off, following in the tracks of the elven party. It wasn’t particularly difficult to track them, 19 horses left quite the noticeable trail behind them. And they didn’t seem to be making any effort to hide their tracks. Either they didn’t believe they would be followed, or they weren’t afraid of being followed. He hoped that he wasn’t going to be stumbling onto a much larger group than he anticipated. He already didn’t know how he could possibly stop nineteen bandits. While he still had the staff, clutched tightly in his right hand, it could only make so much of a difference. And he was no master mage, yet. He had practiced with staved for years now, but truly mastering them could take decades. If only Corellian had his staff, he would have been able to destroy every single one of those elves with hardly a thought.

Perhaps he could wait until the cover of night. And while the elves drank and slept, he would free the Knight. It was desperate, he saw the contempt the Knight had given him while he healed the man. He might very well attempt to kill Marcus even as he undid his bindings. He could only hope that the man would see the clear and present danger the elves represented to both their nations and any hope for a peaceful future between them. And that, if they did manage something, he didn’t just kill him afterward.

Finally out of the smoke, his lungs began clearing up and he could breathe easier. It seemed Muon was breathing easier, too, as she picked up her pace. Riding bareback was its own challenge. It wasn’t something he often found himself doing. He could feel his thighs already beginning to burn from his efforts to maintain a comfortable balance on the mare’s back. He was out of practice riding horses like this, but as Mischief steadied her pace, he began finding his center on her. Mischief was well trained, and very forgiving of what was probably very terrible riding form. Even that death grip he had within her mane didn’t seem to overly trouble her. A little more confident now riding Mischief, he finally released his grip on her mane, smoothing the ruffled hair that had been in his hand. 

All this time, he had tried desperately to keep his mind off of what he had done not even an hour ago. Before this day, he had never really seen combat. His time was spent training and learning how to fight and develop strategies. Never before had he taken another man’s life, and never thought he’d do it with his bare hands. He knew the day would have eventually come, as the Mage’s were Vicenna’s primary military force. They had physical soldiers as well, but they often served little more as guards or supplementary to the primary, albeit rather small, force of powerful mages. 

Mages were what made Vicenna so powerful, and they were what made Vicenna so feared. A handful of master Magus wielding magic could decimate an entire army without it ever getting in range to threaten them. Before the formation of Vicenna, battles between territories were brutal and horrific. Much of the fear of mages comes from that time. A time where mages would leave swaths of lands burning for miles unending; creating rifts in the earth that swallowed cities whole and closing up, sealing it in a hellish tomb. A time where life seemed to have no value and thousands could be snuffed out in an instant at the whims of those powerful mages. Horrors that make modern mages recoil in disgust. It was a dark time in Vicennan history. 

When Vicenna was first founded, they had gone through great lengths to stem these power hungry mages who clashed amongst one another like warlords. It was known in the Vicenan histories as [i]The Great Purge[/i] and was the last truly brutal clash of magic inside its borders. The mightiest mages, powerful though they may have been, were too focused on what ultimate power they sought to attain and clashing amongst one another to stand up to the growing ranks of Vicenna’s magus order. Few were willing to relinquish what they already had attained, claiming to be masters of their lands and its people. They were content with binding their lands in slavery, its people little more than cattle to them. These magic dictators were eventually toppled, though, and Vicenna rose from the ashes of those mage fires like a phoenix, setting forth doctrines for which mages must abide by to ensure that the land never again was made to bear witness to such horror again. It allowed the area to prosper and finally see a peace it’s people had desperately sought amongst the devastation of civil war. 

But this unification riled their neighbors, well aware of the power mages wielded. Fear that this hellish magic that had for a long time been used against each other, now in unity could be used against them. To the Aretans, the threat probably felt real and tangible. Many outside saw most mages as demons in human clothing, wielding powers far greater than any man should have control over. But once unified, Vicenna had saw to it that no mage, at least within its borders, would ever amass such a power again. Their lands had payed dearly time and again for those few who lusted after that kind of strength, and Vicenna was resolute in ensuring past mistakes would not be committed again.

As he thought on the elf he had killed, how he desperately and feebly tried to cling to life as Marcus had yanked away his mortal coil, Marcus’ hands trembled. The sensation of that elf’s heart coming to its permanent rest stayed sharply in his mind. His voice screaming out in a combination of surprise, rage and fear until fading into silence. He never wished to feel that again. Perhaps that is why apprentices rarely saw combat and master mages wielded staves. It made it more impersonal, easier to distance oneself from the brutality of war. He was glad he had a staff with him, though the thought of more killing turned his stomach.

He was left to his thoughts as Mischief galloped onward after the elves. He didn’t have a constitution for fighting. A single life taken, a brigand [i]elf[/i] no less, left him sick and unsure of his own actions. He had always been a supporter of the peace movement with Areta. But the act of aggression from these elves were threatening to throw all of it out the window. Vicenan officials had worried that Aretan soldiers had been pushing into Vicenan lands, perhaps using the peace talks as a ruse to launch a surprise attack. If these bandits had been doing the same across the border, they no doubt thought similarly. He didn’t know for what reason the elves would have for inciting war between the two great human nations, only that stopping them and perhaps saving that Knight could be decisive to claiming peace from what could be the onset of a bloody war. The road to peace felt like it would be paved in elven blood. And he needed to see that the murders of his Master were properly brought to justice, even if that meant more blood on his hands.

Muon Pond was now just a column of smoke slowly shrinking behind him. The sands seemed to stretch out forever in every direction. If he hadn’t a trail of hooveprints to follow, he might get lost in the sands forever. He could already feel his lips chapping from the heat and desert winds. He wished he had water. His throat had already been dry from all the smoke, it felt magnitudes of order worse now. He was quickly regretting going after these brigands without any supplies, not that there had been anything left in the village. He couldn’t tell how long he had been following these tracks, but it felt like an eternity. He prayed that soon he’d catch sight of them. They had to stop eventually.

It felt like later rather than sooner, his prayers were answered. Off in the distance, he could make out the elves and their camp. It was tucked loosely under a cliff face for some protection against the harsh desert sun and winds. It was perfect. Marcus quickly shrouded himself and Mischief and began for the cliff. It wasn’t terribly tall, but would provide an excellent vantage point. He could at least hope for an upper hand if he did choose to engage them here. It didn’t take long for Mischief to climb the hill. He slowed her to a trot and then a stop well before they reached its edge.

He slid off with a stumble, his legs stiff and sore from the pressing ride. Mischief seemed fine resting here, herself, sniffing at a small outcropping of desert grass. Marcus slowly approached the cliff’s edge and peered over. They seemed frantic… Too frantic for just having drove a town off with virtually no resistance. What was going on? What King were they talking about? He could only think of one King in the area, Aretan’s. Nothing was making any sense, why did they keep the Knight prisoner if the King was with them? Was he a prisoner as well? Was that why they were so frantic? No, no, that is not why they were so frantic.

As if an answer to his confusion, the ground trembled beneath him once more, accompanied by a deep sound akin to thunder. This time it was strong, throwing his balance and dropping him to his hands and knees before he almost tumbled over the cliff. What the hell was happening?! He turned to Mischief, to make sure he wasn’t just going insane. It was apparent she had felt it to, coming back down from rearing, a panicked look in her eyes. He had never experienced anything quite like this, even in all his time travelling with Corellius. He tried desperately to pin some explanation to this phenomenon. It couldn’t be those elves, they seemed just as panicked as he was. No, it was someone, or something else. Suddenly, his eyes widened as the notion struck him. [i]No, it can’t be that. Don’t let it be that.[/i] He froze as another tremor shook the earth.

It [i]was[/i] that.