Magic wasn't a wave; it was a torch.
Those who bear it will pass it on, a fire that spreads generation by generation. It had become something to idolize—something to fear. something to yearn for, yet something most would be unable to grasp.
They'd turn to other means within the Bahnt'yr Lands, and simply linger with envy at its sight. Others chose to leave, seeking alternative forms of power they could attain.
This magic wasn't a wave; it was a torch. The magic of channeling.
The founding of the planet as they knew it was achieved several thousand years ago—gods and demons putting aside their quarrels to form continents and oceans, only to be plagued by the eldritch not long after. Fortunately, they found a clever solution; They could create life to stave off their forces for them.
This magic wasn't a wave; it was a torch. The magic of channeling. The fire he couldn't touch.
He'd known it since he was seven: The day his family cast him out. He remembered it like the back of his hand. Every crevice, every wrinkle, every slight cut that pierced him.
He didn't bring anything of value with him- only a small satchel he'd bring with him on trips.
Under the cover of night and cloaks, they got into a wagon. His mother gripped the edge of his wrist with such strength, he could've sworn it would snap right off. She didn't lessen her pace on the way, she only bolted. By the time they got in, he was practically already skidding across the stone pavement.
His father, a larger man in stature, made sure to block the windows with thick curtains hung by the side before hastily taking position by the front and lifting the reins. The next thing the boy knew, the carriage was in motion.
How many times did he ask them? Must have been in the thousands, yet they didn't speak. They didn't even look at him. They couldn't.
The ride felt unusually long to him that night, but by the time it was over, that was it. The clunk of the door opening, a swift kick out its side, followed by the slam shut. His father gave a subtle tug on the reins, and just like that, they were gone.
He never saw them again.
In the modern day, he knew their reasoning; They were ashamed. They looked at him, and saw a failure. A freak. They had booted him out in the middle of a forest, hoping and praying that an eldritch creature would eat him alive, all so they could forget their abnormality of a son.
And truth be told... that wouldn't be far from the truth.
He lingered by the side of the trail they had abandoned him on. It was inhumanly dark that frigid night, barely able to make out the tips of the trees, let alone his own hand stretched out before him.
His vision turned to the south-west, where he recognized the silhouette of the spire and the subsequent walls that surrounded it. Quite easily, he was miles away, no hope of ever being able to return on foot.
Outside the gated communities scattered across the Fractured Plains, eldritch beasts of unknown origin lurk in the shadows. In the case of the boy, he was nowhere near any form of settlement to retreat to. He was completely on his own.
Still, despite his young age, he was far from inexperienced. He had dreamed of one day becoming a mage, joining one of the Phrontistries, and ultimately helping stave off the eldritch. In doing so, he was raised off of study. He wanted nothing more than to learn everything he could—hungered for the slightest bit of knowledge on survival and combat against these lurking beasts.
He looked on the bright side; Now was his chance to do exactly that.
Not wasting a second, he took shelter within the thick canopy of pine and plant, being sure to tread around anything that could reveal his position within the darkness. He began to rind the nearby trees, nails digging in and slightly chipping at the pressure. Not even the gashes that began to form at his fingertips stopped him, only ceasing once a thick chunk ripped off from the log.
He repeated this several times, collecting every bit he gathered within his satchel. By the time his hand began to shake and drip with shallow blood, practically the entire pouch was already brimming with bark.
That was the easy part... now he had to create a fire.
Counter-intuitive when trying to hide from blood-thirsty creatures, yes, but the logic was quite simple. The eldritch, while still mostly unknown to civilization, seem to be emboldened and empowered by the dark. They're aware that if you can't see, they can kill you without breaking a sweat—exactly why flame is a subtle, albeit temporary, deterrent.
More than that, however, you can't exactly fight something you can't see.
With that in mind, he got to work. Carefully, he shuffled his way to an open space devoid of vegetation, quickly scattering the bark and a few sticks into a small pile. A chipped bit of log he scavenged acted as a makeshift hearthboard, holding it to the ground with his foot while he beat against its surface with a sharp rock. Every hit reverberated the sound of cracking wood throughout the forest maze, but in this scenario, he didn't have much of a choice.
Once a hole large enough was made in its surface, he quickly stuffed dry pine and grass inside, not long after gripping a stick and beginning to spin. The rubbing sound almost became hypnotic to an extent- so much so, the boy almost didn't hear the breaking of a branch from behind.
His heart dropped.
For only a brief second, he jolted his head back. From within the shadows... he could still make out its silhouette—not of its body, but of its legs. They were long and slender, pure white and fading off into the treeline above. Every time it stepped, it came with such weight that it almost sounded like a distant explosion, paired with the rummaging of the tree leaves above.
Ever-so-slowly did it approach, an odor of rotting stench starting to permeate through the air.
Regardless, he kept going. His eyes only focused on one thing: The fire. If anything could save him, it would be the fire. All he needed was the fire.
He began to spin it faster. And faster. And faster.
The sounds were demonstrably loud now, as if it were right on top of him. He could hear its mouth begin to open. He could smell its bloodied breath. He could feel it breathe from overtop his own head. The final straw that almost made him want to scream was the silent dripping blood falling down from overhead. It was directly above him, not even a few inches. But that was when it happened- it finally sparked into flame.
Not even a beat of his heart went by before he launched the hearthboard into the pile of bark and sticks, a glistening flame birthed in its wake.
He scurried back, lifting the tail-end of the board mere inches from the creature's maw, teeth disturbingly human in appearance. Much to his benefit, the beast stopped in its tracks. He hadn't noticed, but its spindly arms also descended from above, planted into the edges of the ground surrounding the fire to allow it to bend over.
The flames seemed to confuse it- for a moment, at least.
He took advantage of the opportunity, coming to a stand and weaving his way through the thicket as fast as he possibly could. He didn't stop for anything, running for what felt like ages. Behind him, he could once again hear its footsteps—starting out rather slow, but gradually speeding up.
Faster, and faster, and faster, until he heard nothing at all.
He was already out of breath, and beyond his heavy panting was a sense of curiosity. A sense of accomplishment. He had actually thought he had gotten away.
So foolishly, he stopped. Either way, it wouldn't of done him any good. It was too late the moment the creature saw him. He was already dead.
All he had to do was turn... and he did.
And the only thing he saw was the inside of its mouth.