[hr][hr][center][color=darkslategray][h1]Edric Beaumont[/h1][/color][/center][hr][hr]
Candak was no stranger to travelers. The war's end had opened up pathways once unheard of between Men, Elves, and Dwarves, prompting members from all races and backgrounds to travel the roads. Wandering bards finding inspiration for their songs and poetry in the simplistic, imaginative beauty of nature; traveling merchants hauling horse-and-wagon filled to the brim with goods to be sold; and brave adventurers, mercenaries seeking rest in roadside inns and taverns, regaling patrons with embellished, half-drunken tales of harrowing battles and daring rescues. Though Warren was considered the primary travelers hub for those on the road to Aigeovarth, every village and settlement, whether large or small, could anticipate the arrival of some unfamiliar face every now and then. 

But Edric Beaumont remained one of the few strange exceptions, a description he had come to all-but-embrace in recent years. Since Brevyon's near-destruction, the persecution of mages became limited now to their own crumbling walls. Wizards and spell-weavers from Elf and Human alike could be found quite commonly in Aigeovarth, and rumor abounded that many of the tribes scattered across the country boasted a shaman or soothsayer. But the lives of men were short, and their grudges long. Superstition was steadfast in the villages, with many wizards still viewed with fear and distrust for their use of the arcane arts. 

As a result, cautious mages traveling the roads attempted to hide their magic from the common people, refraining from spell-casting, and identifying themselves simply as wanderers needing a place to rest for the night. But not Edric. 

The sole-surviving Beaumont Twin would enter each town bearing confidence born of indifference, garbed in heavy robes of waxed fabric and leather, branded with strange runes and symbols. Every villager felt that same feeling in his presence, a [i]weirdness[/i], so to speak. It was in his countenance, they surmised. The unnatural brightness of his eyes; the manner in which his fingers seemed to twitch constantly, nails tinted a sickly purple; his eerie, unflinching gaze that spoke of experiences no-one else could possibly understand. And the wolf: the ethereal creature that followed him like a loyal hound, seeming to fade in and out of corporeality with every step, like trying to see through smoke. 

He was a quiet man, though strange in his mannerisms, polite enough to those who spoke with him. In taverns they found him seated in a table at the corner, drinking wine and flipping through some old tome, often written in a language forgotten by all but the Elves. Though often receiving aside glances and the occasional stare, he was generally left alone, with even the most paranoid thinking twice before attempting to provoke a mystic. 

Though often a wayward soul, one who'd reside at the inn only a night before being on his way, something prompted him to stay. A small village, built near the border of Brevyon, Wayright, it was called. Though a modest bustle of life, it was surrounded by death - corpses of the war fought long ago. Abandoned forts, military camps, even one-or-two Minotaur fortresses all stood as macabre memorials to Brevyon's heartless ambition and cruelty. The closer one got to Brevyon's territory, the more danger magic-users were in. Though a generation later, the orphans of war did not forget their parents' hatred of magic, and the races that wielded it. To this day, Elves would mysteriously disappear near the border, with stories told of barbaric witch trials conducted to execute any accused of wielding magic. 

But Edric felt no fear, rather, curiosity. What drove him here was the secrets the ruins held, the history within them: remnants of a time left behind.