Azriel

"Where areee youu?" A melodic, male voice drifted through the wooden cabin, a childish giggle surfacing in response. 

"You'll never catch me!" A young and squeaky voice bounced off of the walls of the cabin, dancing in the air and allowing the pursuer to track the little boy. 

"You can hide, but you can't run you little rascal!" The more mature voice echoed in response, only to be met by the happy laughter of the little child. Running through the one story cabin, weaving between the hand crafted furniture, a boy looked hard to find a good hiding spot. 

Diving into the shadows behind a beautiful mahogany bureau, he settled with knees risen towards the chest and his chin resting on the kneecaps. A soft giggle which he immediately quelled in fear of alerting the chaser barely entered the air. 

The sound of creaking wooden boards slipped under the boy's hideaway, signalling that the pursuer was near. He couldn't help but slightly smile, playful nervousness taking a hold of his body. 

A small draft of wind crept beneath the bureau, the one in pursuit having stopped right in front of it. Holding his breath, the child quivered slightly as he made an effort in staying silent. 

"I know you're there..." 

"Azriel! Stop teasing your brother and come here, now!" The demanding voice of an irritated mother entered the room, ending the cheerful playtime. 

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming!" Azriel shouted back, getting on his knees in front of the bureau. Slipping out from behind the furniture, Azriel's younger brother pinched his older brother's elbow, a timid look thrown down on the wooden planks covering the floor. With sadness in his voice, the little boy asked:

"For how long will you be gone?" 

"I don't know Malu," Azriel sighed, "I'm gonna get tested, and then what? I don't know..." 

Ruffling his brothers hair, Azriel turned around and walked through the doorframe of the room, entering a small kitchen. Brewing over an open pit of fire, a large iron pot hung in a tripod. In the roof above, a small hole could be seen guiding the steam to an escape. Filling the room was the heavy smell of herbs and meat, the stew lacing the air with its thick aroma. 

Standing at the edge of the pit holding a big wooden spoon, with which she stirred the stew, was a woman, Azriel and Malu's mother. At the noise of the creaking floor, the mother turned around, facing the approaching boy. 

Azriel was clad in a white tunic stuffed into a pair of dark brown pants whom was held up by a thin, brown, leather belt. Converging at the ankles, the pants flowed out into a pair of brownish, knitted socks with his feet covered by simple leather shoes, tied up by woven strings. 

Healthy, tanned skin dressed the young man, his jawbone embracing his face in a sharp hug, intense, green eyes beaming out over the world before him. Nut-brown hair lay slicked back across his scalp, ending in a short, neat ponytail. 

"They're waiting at the door," his mother scoffed, nudging her head in the direction of the door leading out of the cabin. 

"Yes, mother, I'll be going soon." 

"Bid your father farewell on the way out, maybe he'll listen this once."

"I will," Azriel said, ending the conversation.

With a last intake of breath, smelling the intense fragrance of the stew, he grabbed a dark cloak from a wooden coat-hanger and a pair of matte, black leather gloves before clasping the knob of the door, twisting and pushing outwards, opening it.

Outside, a chilly wind rampaged the air with snow falling in dazzling streams, amassing in droves on the ground. On top of two grand horses right across the small lawn marking the land of Azriels family sat two coat-clad humans. Approaching them, Azriel pushed through heaps of snow, a blizzard having passed by the night before. 

Quickly drenching his leather shoes and woollen pants, Azriel sighed and swore silently. Coming to a stop before the horses, he bowed deeply and addressed the still sitting figures above. 

"I greet you, Advanced Magi Turve, and...?" He hesitated, looking at the smaller figure through his eyelashes, his body still in a bow.

"Scholar Sorceress Sod," the rough voice of the larger figure, Turve, rumbled through the chill air. "You may rise, young one," he continued, "you're riding with me." 

"Thank you, sir," Azriel said in respect, rising from his bow. Looking up at Turve, he took in the man's sharp features, the brown, wildly grown beard - surely not trimmed for ages, he thought. Everything about the man seemed to radiate brown, the eyes, the skin, the clothes, everything. 

The same went for the apparent apprentice, Sod, who she too wore only brown, her face covered by an equally brown mask depicting shattering earth and falling mountains. Taking a hold on the saddle of Turve's horse, Azriel smoothly swung himself up, showing his skills in mounting a horse. 

A silent nod between the two Magi signalled their take-off and the horses turned their heads in response to the rider's intentions. Coming up into a trot they began their journey through the snow-clad world, deftly following the gravelled roads. 

Azriel relaxed, letting his gaze wander about to take in the magical surroundings. For a while, they rode through billowing hills and forest covered ridges. All around them, snow fell in multitude, covering trees and ground alike. Slippery surfaces destined to make the horses slip never made their presence known, influenced by some unknown powers. 

The landscape was beautiful, to say the least: tall, snowclad trees; glistening grass as if it was reflecting the stars scattered over the firmament up above and the soft rays of light dancing happily across the world, reflecting and embracing the whiteness. 

Having come to a stop on top of a ridge, the now three riders settled for the night, the sun having set a few hours before. Coldness creeped over the ground, vigorously trying to nestle itself in under the clothes of the travellers, though yet again being blocked by otherworldly powers. 

"Clear the area," Turve's voice shattered the silence, a deep rumbling pervading the air. — Do all Magi of the Earth have such deep voice? Azriel reflected as he stood in silence and watched as Sod placed herself in the middle of the little clearing and held her glove-clad hands high. 

A soft mumbling soon came from the young sorceress and Azriel leaned in close to listen to the spellcasting. Suddenly cutting off, the sorceress rushed her hands down towards the ground. With a violent push of air, the ground, which was covered in snow, as everything else was, wobbled as if it was waves on the open sea. 

The ground quaked as it formed a dome around the three people. Darkness shrouded the clearing, the dome cutting off the light from the moon.

A flash killed the darkness as Turve held a lantern high before using his free hand to mould the bent Earth into a hook on which he placed the lantern. 

— A witchlight! Azriel nearly shouted, but held it inside his mind. Witchlights were rare, only ever seen in the upper echelons of society. For an Advanced Magi to have one in possession testified the importance Turve had. And for a country bumpkin like Azriel, well this was the first he had ever seen one. 

Sod, having just performed magic, had grabbed a conjured piece of earth and begun shovelling the snow, forming a big pile alongside a section of the wall. 

"Why don't you conjure it away?" Azriel asked in confusion, unable to hold his eagerness in. 

Turve, sitting in a chair of earth like it was the most comfortable thing in the world, answered: "Forgetting is a sin of this land, take this to heart young one. Forgetting who we once were, or who our predecessors were, is the biggest obstacle on the path of Magic. So we do this trivial work to remind ourselves where we all came from, to not forget what allowed us to get where we are now." 

Azriel stared at the lounging Magi in astonishment; that was the most amount of words he had ever heard him say since they rode off, but then it hit him, why was Turve lounging in a magically made chair whilst his apprentice slaved away? Talk about forgetting your origins. 

"How does sorcery work?" He asked again, unfurling a processed skin to lay on the ground as protection against the damp, putting a cold mattress on top. 

"You'll learn eventually, if a element deems you enough, but I guess it doesn't hurt if I say a thing or two," Turve said, opening his eyes to look at his apprentice, "that's good, Sod, you listen too, you're getting tested on this soon." 

"Yes, Master," she answered timidly, letting the improvised, conjured shovel dissolve into dirt before sitting in a newly made chair, identical to the one her master sat in. 

"Sorcery, or Magic, is when a chosen wield the fabrics of reality to their biding, creating phenomena outside the forces of nature. Although Magic often materialise as if it was ruled over by the forces of nature, it's not." Turve paused slightly before continuing, "Magic comes in different elements such as Earth, Wind, Fire and Water and is expressed through their impact on the surrounding environment. Fire is harsh, rough and invasive, Water and Wind is gentle but can be suffocating at will and Earth is edgy and simple, yet effective. 

Magi who are chosen by the elements start out as Novice Sorcerers in our Order of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and can progressively move up by being examined. All children are tested at age 15, like you, Azriel, and the only reason I have come to pick you up is due to the relation the Order has with your father. It's otherwise a matter settled solely by Apprentice Magi." 

Azriel sighed inwardly and placed an imaginary palm to his forehead. He had actually forgot to say goodbye to his father in his eagerness to travel! Focusing back on the still talking Turve, he didn't fail to notice the sudden snapping of the Magi's head towards the wall of the dome. 

Turve's eyes squinted as he slowly rose from his chair. A soft tremor ran through the ground, imperceptible to all but the standing man.

"Demons." He said in an all time low voice, the words shaking the very space before the three.