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Master dragonshadow58

Part 1: The Early Days Chapter 2 - Firewyrm Chapter 3 - Magic Theory Chapter 1 - Paladin Power Chapter 4 - Learning to Train Chapter 5 - Madness Chapter 6 - Illegal Magic Chapter 7 - The Greatest Potential Chapter 8 - To Love the Gods Chapter 9 - Shifting Futures Chapter 10 - Hurry Up and Wait Part 2: Hamerfoss Chapter 11 - Road to Hamerfoss Chapter 12 - Catching Up on Lessons Chapter 13 - Shipping New Samples Chapter 14 - Ice Ice Baby Chapter 15 - Burn Baby Burn Chapter 16 - Aftermath Chapter 17 - Until Proven Guilty Chapter 18 - A Name Chapter 19 - Friends Chapter 20 - What is a Warlock? Chapter 21 - Day With the Squires Chapter 22 - Until Proven Inocent Chapter 23 - The Talk Chapter 24 - It Doesn't Matter Chapter 25 - Attack Part 3: Time Apart Chapter 26 - Mages Guild Chapter 27 - Samples... Chapter 28 - Out on the Town Chapter 29 - Back at Hamerfoss Chapter 30 - Discoveries Chapter 31 - Solstice in the City Chapter 32 - Hamerfoss Holidays Chapter 33 - Clearance Exam Chapter 34 - Results Chapter 35 - Road Patrol Part 4: Home Is Where The Heart Is Chapter 36 - Going Back. Chapter 37 - Time to Travel Chapter 38 - Home Chapter 39 - Sparring Match Chapter 40 - Winter Solstice Chapter 41 - Student and Master Chapter 42 - Goodbye for Now Chapter 43 - Hard Work and Dedication. Chapter 44 - First Steps Chapter 45 - Seniors Part 5: The End of an Age. Chapter 46 - Next Generation Chapter 47- Chosen of the Gods Chapter 48 - Wrapped in Ice Chapter 49 - The End and Beginning

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Part 1: The Early Days

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Summer 4970, Clearhelm

“We are only as fast as the slowest among us...” the Chief reminded his son. The kingdom often assumed that the tribal saying meant the free people of the land culled their weak, when in reality, it was used to calm the impatient by calling upon their tribal loyalty. “You are the fastest. Go, warn them.” Chief Silvermoose ordered.

The sky above was the pale blue of the far north, chill even at the height of summer. But on the horizon, peeking just over the distant mountains, roiled a storm. Black clouds boiled and bubbled like tar, streaked by lightning of every unnatural color.

“They have eyes to see…” Whitewolf started to argue, gesturing angrily at the threat billowing toward them. The tribe had begun their hasty packing at the first sign of a green flash of lightning.

“My son, does the bird say to itself, ‘my neighbors have eyes to see the hawk approaching,’ or does it call out its warning nonetheless?” Chief Silvermoose explained, patting the neck of Whitewolf’s horse.

Whitewolf looked away but didn't argue further. He knew the truth of his father's words, and the truth of his own hesitation. Whitewolf was afraid... afraid for his tribe and his family. His young wife and unborn child...

Gripping the horse's shaggy mane, the warrior mounted with a fluidity born of a lifetime of practice. He could see the eye of the cursed storm, now cresting over the distant peaks ever blanketed in thick unmelting snow. Was it really moving that fast, or was it just the unease in his heart that made it appear as such?

His father appeared to be looking anywhere but at the flashes of color, whose light seemed to be absorbed by that swirling eye of black, darker even than the onyx of his wife's beautiful hair. “Go!” the Chief ordered, slapping the horse’s haunches and sending it lunging away.

Keeping his seat, Whitewolf leaned down along the horse’s neck, directing it with his legs, southeast, towards the mining town of kingdom men.

The twisting eye followed him, hail beginning to strike at his back. At first, it was only as large as small pebbles, but as the storm overtook the sun, the hail had grown into fist-sized rocks of ice.

He was offered a short reprieve as he circled around the edge of the lonely mountain that marked the border between the wilds of his tribe’s land and the kingdom. The bulk of the storm was blocked from view by the mountain full of the precious ore these kingdom men valued so much. Rounding the last bolder, he squinted at the village's tall stone wall and the soldiers rushing back and forth along its top. The hail that followed Whitewolf began clinging off their armored heads like a hundred steel bells.

The wall was built to keep out the monsters as well as barbarian tribes -such as his own. Though now it seemed only to trap the kingdom citizens inside...

Directing his mount with his legs, Whitewolf cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Run! The storm approaches!” He was unsurprised to see the gate closed as he drew nearer and turned his mount to run beside the wall, shouting, again and again the warning to flee.

When he reached the other end of the wall, he pulled back, the horse sitting back on its haunches and rearing as it turned to charge back again. Whitewolf continued his desperate warnings as ice, now the size of his head, slammed around him, striking the wall and breaking off chunks of stone. Only when one clipped his side did he stop his shouting, doubling over from the pain and nearly losing his seat.

“Open the gates!” a lone knight manning the wall gave the order to his enlisted, and the gate began to creak slowly open.

Whitewolf slipped his horse through the barest opening, dropping from his mount to look up as the storm crested the mountain peak and continued to swirl above, the magical lighting growing ever closer in just the few heartbeats that he'd dared watch.

A gauntleted hand gripped his shoulder and he was forced to meet the scowling visage of the Paladin who'd ordered the gates open. “The storm approaches you must run,” Whitewolf gasped out again, standing tall but gripping his ribs, sure at least one had been cracked by the hail.

A second man, clad in faintly yellow robes, as if they'd been sun-bleached, stammered, “Run where? There's nothing but tundra and mountains for days.”

“We don’t have the horses to-” but the Paladin was interrupted by shouts and screams as amongst the smaller pieces of hail fell an ice rock the size of a wagon. All who saw instinctively dropped to the ground, covering their heads. It wasn’t enough to save two of the citizens. The monstrous hailstone hit the ground and bounced, pulverizing them and staining its white surface red before slamming into a house and through its walls, where more surprised screaming was quickly cut short.

The robed priest trembled as he straightened, staring at the house as it collapsed under the weight of its now unsupported roof.

“The mines.” Someone shouted, their voice cracking in desperate fear, “Get to the mines!”

The kingdom men ran. Adults pulled children behind them and guards ripped cumbersome belongings from villagers’ hands, throwing them to the ground, and pushing the citizens forward. Whitewolf followed as more head-sized hail fell from the angry sky, pummeling the mountain and roads around them.

A head taller than even the tallest of these kingdom men, Whitewolf saw the mouth of the cave they retreated into over their bobbing panicked forms.

A child tripped ahead of him, and Whitewolf bent, scooping the youngling up under an arm as he ran. The knight stood outside the entrance, pulling and pushing the villagers past him, standing guard as if he could somehow fight the raging storm.

“The mountain!” someone shouted, and many screamed. Whitewolf dove, bolling the knight over and sending them both tumbling into the mine, the crying child still held at his side. The snow above rumbled and groaned. More screaming, more rumbling. And the constant hammering of hail on the mountainside sped the avalanche down, blocking the entrance with tons of rock and unmelted snow from its highest reaches.

“Light!” the Paladin ordered, pushing away from Whitewolf and climbing to his feet. The barbarian expected to hear the click of flint on steel and see the flicker of fire lighting a torch. Instead, he was blinded by a sudden burst of magic, like the sun on a spring day. The priest in yellow robes had made it into the mines, and apparently, he had enough divine magic to create light.

The villagers huddled together, some clutching to their families, others pushing their way through their neighbors, shouting for loved ones. The child beside Whitewolf pulled away from him, crying for its mother as a woman fell to her knees and clutched the youngling tight to her chest. Whitewolf didn’t bother to stand. He sat on the ground and closed his eyes, leaning back and finding fallen stone and ice there. Blocking the entrance, and exit, to this soon-to-be mass grave.

His mount was outside. Had the faithful steed been buried by the avalanche? Or crushed by the falling hail? His father had been right; the pair of them were the fastest in the tribe. And still the storm had caught them. Whitewolf chuckled, finding a morbid sense of humor and relief in his doom.

“I will see you soon, father…” for there was no way the tribe had made it clear, “We are only as fast as the slowest among us…"