Fire, Ice, and Arcane addictions.

‘Two weeks.’ He thought to himself. ‘Ten days, tops. By then, he’ll be sick of me and I’ll be right back in Silvermoon.’ The elf smiled to himself and stared at the rather homely blonde riding in front of him. An escort. His father couldn’t be bothered to make the journey himself. Oh, no. So here he was, following some nameless peon of an elf, weary and bitter towards the long ride through the Barrens.

“How much further are we going?” He asked in a voice that showed every morsel of his enthusiasm.

“Not far.” The woman grunted. She knew by now that there was no getting along with this boy, and she had long since stopped trying.

“Ah, not far. That gives me quite a precise measurement.” His voice was dotted with cheer as he jeered contentedly at his escort. She was riding one of those feathered peacocks that, as far as he was concerned, had little use beyond the fire pit at the Faire.

They had left the paved road miles ago, and now started weaving their way up into one of the many mountain ranges that made the Barrens more of a plague than the dreadful heat, or the frequent lions and harpies.

“My god, there’s no path at all, is there? Well, then, it’s a good thing our mounts can handle rough terrain, isn’t it?” He flashed the blonde elf a mocking smile as his horse easily cantered along the rocky ridges. “The logic of continuing usage of that grounded avian persists far beyond my wide scope.”

It wasn’t exactly grammatically correct, but it had the right effect. The escort’s face contorted with confusion as she attempted to sort out what exactly he had said. His chest heaved with a powerful sigh and he turned away. She was too easy; she was far too simple a thing to take offense. She finally mounted the small crest and continued to lead the way. He followed with a dry resignation.

This wasn’t an exile sentence, or any such nonsense, as much as it felt like it. Arxhantel Meldisar was the headmaster of the Silvermoon arcane academy, and the father of Veranstipel Meldisar, the handsome young elf riding through the Barrens. Veranstipel was the brightest of the bright, and his father was just so proud. He was a magical prodigy, or some such nonsense. He tore through classwork, aced every test thrown his way. It wasn’t that he cared what his father thought, or what anyone else did, for that matter. Veran did magic because it was the only thing he liked to do.

So, of course, his father had decided to ship him off to some famous wizard who lived in the middle of absolute nowhere to be a true wizard’s apprentice. Brilliant. Moreover, the wizard was a troll. See, in the common language, calling someone a troll means that they are ugly, stupid, or otherwise unpleasant. “I’m a troll.” Veran spoke to no one in particular. If the escort heard him, she ignored him.

Veran knew he was difficult to get along with. He liked being difficult to get along with. If no one else was up to his standard and refused to play by his rules, that was just their loss, wasn’t it? Besides, the girls loved the bad-ass routine. Not that he really cared what they thought, of course. He didn’t particularly care what anyone thought. It was just amusing that they paid him such attention.

The escort slowed to a stop and exhaled deeply near the top of a valley’s ridge. Veran rode to her side casually, only mildly interested in whatever it was she saw. Cut into a mountainside deep within the range was a large crater, maybe a mile in diameter. It was difficult to tell exactly how large it was because it was centered around a large spring, and the area around the spring was a dense jungle of wildlife.

“Brilliant. Now I can be eaten alive by bugs and raptors.” Veran mumbled at the scenery, in a bored, standoffish kind of way. Even he had to admit, though, it was rather impressive. The Barrens were, as one would guess, barren; they were lifeless and boring, and the ground was cracked and dead with nothing but half-buried bones to suggest it might ever have been different. The contrast between the deadness of the land and the life of this sanctuary was so powerful, it nearly made Veran care.

He may have been unlikeable, but Veran was not stupid. He immediately picked out precisely three details about the crater. First, it was hidden. The position it was in made certain that the only ways to see it were to be standing directly on the ridge of the valley, a space so narrow that Veran and his escort nearly filled it completely, or to fly directly overhead. It was a fortress.

Second, the way the valley around it was shaped, sound would funnel directly into the sky, and nowhere else. A large explosion could shake this sanctuary, but no one would hear it, even if they happened to be this far from civilization (and he used that word lightly to describe life in the Barrens.).

Finally, from the moment they had entered the valley, they had been cursed.