“The King of the Graoungers has declared for the sake of his Clan and Council that Vallr’s gates are closed to those who cannot find it in their hearts to respect our dignity. You have poisoned the minds of our young men with dreams of powers that are not theirs to use. You have exploited the work of our elders. You have caused it to come to pass that we should exile one of our own beyond the archipelago. The hospitality of the Trygt-hemmelig has been extended to far too many who are not deserving of it. No longer. Respect our ways or leave, lest you forfeit your life.”

-Declaration of the King of Graoungers, in the Spring of 244 YT

A strange and mysterious land beyond the archipelago

Stumbling his way across the continent, Oscar reached into the power in himself even as he rested his hand in the folds of his cloak. He felt the earth shimmer and undulate beneath him as his way shortened. With mage-blinded eyes (and how the blood boiled when it ran down his face!) he saw only distant wisps of energy, like the motes of torches long put out. They danced, concentrated in the distance, the strongest he’d seen since his blinding. There were only the motes of light, no shapes or colors or textures. Each time Oscar whispered and the earth folded under him, thrusting him forward through space, he felt branches sting his face, felt blood fly forth from his cheeks. One unexpected twig struck him in the eye during a leap forward.

He leapt again, and shortened the path, and with the next step he took he tripped over a rock. He fell roughly, not able to see the ground rushing up toward him, scrambling to put his hands in front of him and failing. His head rang painfully as he forced himself back up to his feet. Though his head shook, and his ears rang, the distant motes of light danced slightly. Tongues of the flamelike, colorless light tore off from the main mass and began to climb toward him, slowly.

He shortened the path again and the tongues leapt toward him, accompanied now by voices. One voice was lilting and slow, trailing off as quickly as its owner spoke up. A young man. The other voice, quiet and rough, staccato and guttural, moved ahead, closer now, closer. A girl’s voice.

He turned the earth and shortened the path again, holding out a hand ahead of him to brace himself. A hard impact against his hand, straining the bones of his fingers as he grasped at a tree’s bark. The wood did not yield before him, but knots in the bark dug painfully into the soft flesh of Oscar’s palm.

The colorless flame was right before him, in the shapes of humans now. Two figures – one reached into its coat and Oscar heard the scraping sound of a knife being drawn from its scabbard. Oscar’s hand slipped, wet, from the trunk. He gasped, staring down the two human-like figures. The flames shifted, and he discerned their defensive stances, heard their sharp and shallow breaths. They were ready to strike, coiled like so much wire.

“Please… help me…” he tried to say. He tried to recall where he was. Far south of the archipelago, to be sure. Would the people here understand his tongue? But the words didn’t come as he willed them.

“Isn’t it… the place of a prophet… to scorn the king? But I’m nothing, of nowhere…”

On shaking legs, Oscar struggled to stand. He reached out to the trunk, but misremembered where it had been, and he collapsed.

At the edge of consciousness, he heard the quiet, rough, staccato voice. “Well? We’re going to h…”

The voice faded into nothingness, behind the ringing in his ears, and he heard only the rasping of the knife. Then the muffled, lilting voice – so slow and gentle and fearful.