Curse of the demon slave's favor
Noble Genasi Swordmage
Legacy of the wanderer… (Prologue)
Roawin La’ithreach was an orphan, or so he had assumed for the first 10 years of his life. It was a nice orphanage he lived in. It was a large manor on a palatial estate, straddling the border of two kingdoms. One thing always troubled his mind since early child hood; if this was an orphanage then why was he the only orphan? Furthermore, why did he have so many people taking care of him? Sure his friends had poked fun at him about the family that left him to fend for himself. But the chiding was always just a joke, right? It was on his 11th birthday that the truth was revealed to him, Roawin was heir to this estate in fact he was the only person known to be alive who bore the name and title of his father’s, father’s, father. The La’ithreach family’s lineage indeed stretched beyond true remembrance, beyond actual lore to the stuff that created fairy tales. The truth was, even though Roawin’s family owned such a large house and employed so many servants, only a small few of the immediate family had actually set foot in it, and it is said that majority of Roawin’s extended family didn’t even know the location of the manor. The truth as it was told to Roawin was that he was one in a line of innumerable children, even the servants didn’t know the actual number, and that his existing family had had for centuries an incurable syndrome of wander lust. This was quite a shock for Roawin, it wasn’t that his family left him to fend for himself; it was that his family had just left. Some of the servants produced letters and gifts sent by his relations to the house to be received by other relations who weren’t home to receive them. It became Roawin’s obsession to read these letters and inspect the ownerless gifts until he was able to discern the approximate where a bouts of his sister who went north, or his brothers who went to sail the sea, etcetera. Several of the great rooms of the manor became a sort of routing station for the “lost” items and to Roawin’s estimate he was the last in the line of some twenty three children, all of whom, had left for some reason or another.
For many years Roawin had been studying to be a swordsman and he was proving to be a proficient in the craft. But as the years after his discovery rolled by Roawin became drawn to his obsession, until it had consumed almost every wakening hour, and several darkened fits of slumber. It was no shock to his instructors that Roawin had canceled his lessons entirely.
One morning while half asleep between his breakfast and a parchment that had come from his sister addressed to no one in particular, in which she had divulged “wish you were here”, Roawin felt a tug in his gut. Observing the condition of his cold grey eggs he felt the need to run to relieve himself, in his haste to the nearest privy Roawin tripped on a dried harpy claw, sent from his brother who may or may not be currently living in Casazstel, and was sent careening to the floor sending a large stack of boxes and a brown paper wrapped book crashing down. The book however settled gently on his chest. Roawin noticed a warmth both uncomfortable and soothing to his touch coming from the book. On the paper wrapping there was scrawled three words that made the young La’ithreach heir’s throat catch “To my Son”.
The Book became Roawin’s new obsession; in fact it took him nearly a month to open it for fear of destroying some link to his father that the plain brown wrapper may somehow hold. But his curiosity got the better of him, the tugging in his gut began to grow and one night late in his 15th summer Roawin opened the link to his destiny. The book was wondrous, containing scribblings of ancient origin that seemed to translate themselves for only him, the teachings of the book seamed to engulf him and his awareness of himself the elements around him, the way he moved, and even the sword in his hand became so deliberate that Roawin found himself becoming something else.
On his birthday of his 18th year while the morning sun had just began to tickle the horizon, Roawin had had enough. He stared at the piles of ownerless belongings each stacked neatly in 23 piles, all with names and inventories, and maps marked with pins. He loved all these things dearly but lately the tugging in his gut had become unbearable, and the book, which he had read cover to cover more times that he could count, promised him that there was a world out there to be discovered and that now it was time to go. Roawin gathered his things donning his traveling clothes, slipping on his knee high boots, with sword belted to his side and his wide brimmed hat set at an angle to shield his eyes from the sun, Roawin La’ithreach strode from the house. He left only one trace of his presence in the lonely manor, amongst the piles of belongings was now a small section of floor with a note bearing the number 24…