Fahren al-Heit - My Story

I am known as Fahren al-Heit, In Gharu it is loosely “The fire that is the desert sun”. In the Roulean tongue Fahrenheit has been found to be easier to say. How is it that I, a fledgling of the al-lghaz ended here in Dereth? The gleaming portal that opened in my path and both saved and destroyed my life.

Forgive me. I seem to have started at the wrong beginning. Let me return to the past.
"For every grain of sand in the Naqut, there is a tale to be told." This then is mine. My father is a noble in the court of Malika Qadira bint Balj being the fifth son of his fifth wife I never gained his eye for more then a passing glimpse. My childhood was filled with learning as the Walim where frequent to visit my father. His support of “The Searchers” allowed me access to much of the lore that lifts the Gharu’n from their humble beginnings in the the Naqut Desert to the noble kingdom we are now. Thus I learned the Alamakhaida and was trained to follow the Ghayaraqa Yadina (Twelve Roads).
As my studies went along I found my interests leaning more to the Ighazaqa Talina (the academy of Sorcery). As I had reached manhood I petitioned my father for a stipend in which to gain access to the study of the arcane arts. My time at the Academy was fruitful and I quickly moved to the top of my class. Still, the magiks taught where not of the strength and power I desired.
One day I noted a hunched black figure scuttling in a darkened hall. Curious, I pursued it, only to find it was a crooked ancient man. I called out to him only to find myself frozen to the spot with a single gesture and a crimson flash of light. As the figure moved through the doorway I could move again. This was beyond the skills my teachers had shown. The doorway had no lock or handle. After a frustrating hour trying to figure a way in I went back to my studies. I spent my free time asking about the man, it was obvious he was a mage. My instructors waved off my questions and directed me back to my studies. As time passed I began to see him more and more. Often times no one around me seemed to be able too witness his passing but I. One time I held out some grapes. He stopped and seemed alarmed that I noticed him. He took the fruit and went on his way. In a similar way I would distribute food to the hermit day by day. After a month of this he uttered a single word to me “thanks” and shuffled along.
This started a most interesting relationship. The ancient one was a 500-year-old Milantos exile. He had fallen into disfavor with sorcerer king and had fled for his life. The Academy teachers tolerated his scurrying around and treated him with disdain and some fear. All my life I had known the Milantan’s as the ones who had kidnapped and tortured Yasif the poet. Maybe this is why thus treated. Yet the poet himself said “Speak with respect, to friend and foe alike”
After a time he began to teach me of his magic. It was a powerful combination of art. I became ensorled in his teaching. I dropped my studies and focused on the two arts he claimed where the key to power. In truth he was right. I could feel the energies surge like never before. While my classmates could do a great variety of things I focused on only the most powerful. My teachers did not approve but I set my focus such that they could do nothing but advise a deaf man.
Then came the fated day. I went to his darkened room in the sub basement to find his most precious of items missing. A scrawled not told me the worst had happened. The ebon forces that he once opposed where out for their vengeance. I headed after him and soon spotted his scuttling form. In the sky was a quickly forming cloud formation. I ran to his side as the dark masters of the Cabals slowly descended. Though part of me wanted to flee in terror The words of Yasif’s Ghayaraqa Yadina kept coming back to me “Place your lord’s life above even your own, so long as he remains just.”
What happened next still eludes me. Energies did fly and crackle, the wind howled and sounds that still haunt my sleep ripped the sky. In an instant my mentor was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes. A goodly portion of my Dho robe was likewise burned. I scrambled to get clear of the laughing Sorcerers. They fired bolts of enormous power and over the howl I heard their laughter. Enraged I turned and let loose one of the spells I had learned. The dark ones robes where engulfed in flames his laughing turned to screams. I caught him unawares, his protections down. I used the respite to run across the sands. The familiar nightmare sounds overtook me. Their vengeance was at hand. At this time a gleaming portal opened before me. Rather then die a meaningless death I plunged through.
This is how my story began among those of Dereth.

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