The Land Before

Mark of Blanta—an arch mage whose mastery of the high magical arts was matched only by his skill with sword and armor smithing—arrived in Cindera looking for supplies. He wore a long blue mage's cloak, a magical backpack strapped to his shoulders, and carried both a mage's staff and a magic-imbued sword at his belt. He was a loner, and a strong one at that, but he had been looking for people to join a party to make questing and earning coin easier. The trouble was that he did not trust easily, and he had been burned in the past.

He walked into the local bar hoping to find supplies quickly and move on. A few locals were scattered around the room. He approached the innkeeper and began haggling.

"What do you have, innkeep? And I want a discount because I'm buying in bulk."

The innkeeper, a stout human man with a grease-stained apron and a perpetual scowl, wiped a glass with a rag that looked older than the building itself. He eyed Mark's magical backpack and the gleam of his sword with undisguised greed, but he wasn't about to let a stranger walk in and bully him into a loss.

"Aye, and what might you be lookin' for, stranger?" he grunted, his voice rough like gravel. "We got the usual. Dried rations, waterskins, maybe a cloak if you're lookin' for something decent. But you're buyin' in bulk? That'll cost ya."

He leaned over the counter, invading Mark's personal space. "Five gold pieces for the lot. Take it or leave it. The way I see it, you're a fancy mage, probably got coin coming out your ears. You can afford it."

An elf walked in soon after. Mark looked behind him, as did everyone else in the bar, and watched the patrons treat her like she was unwelcome. He kept watching while still bartering for supplies.

The innkeeper turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the entrance where the elf had just shuffled in. He watched the way the patrons shifted in their seats, the way a few of the rougher men made snide comments or tossed coins toward her as if she were a beggar. The innkeeper smirked, seeing an opportunity to drive the price up.

"See that elf over there?" he asked, nodding his chin toward the door. "She's been comin' in here for weeks. Never buys a drink. Never spends a copper. Just sits in the corner and stares at the walls like she's got nowhere else to go. You want the good stuff? You pay the price. If you want to save a few coins, you can go sit with her."

He waited, his hand hovering expectantly over the register, clearly enjoying the power dynamic. "Well? What's it gonna be? Five gold, or are you gonna let a lowly elf teach you how to haggle?"

Mark smirked. "I like your confidence, innkeeper, but five gold for that is not going to happen. I appreciate your hospitality." He tossed five copper onto the bar. "Just a brew and some bread then."

The innkeeper stared at the copper coins as if they were pieces of trash, his jaw tightening. He picked them up with two fingers and dropped them into his pocket with a heavy sigh, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet room.

"Stubborn," he muttered, turning his back to grab a dusty bottle and a loaf of bread from the shelf behind him. He slammed them onto the counter, the bread bouncing slightly. "Fine. A brew and bread. That'll be two coppers."

He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes drifting back to the entrance. The atmosphere in the room had grown noticeably tense. The elf, Elira, stood just inside the doorway, her shoulders hunched slightly against the scrutiny of the room. She looked like a stray cat that had wandered into a den of wolves.

A burly man with a scar running down his cheek stood up from a nearby table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He bumped into Elira's shoulder as he passed, knocking her slightly off balance. She stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe, but didn't look up. She just gripped her crooked wooden staff tighter, her knuckles turning white.

The man laughed, loud and mocking. "Watch where you're going, pointy-ears. Or should I say, 'beggar-ears'?"

The innkeeper watched the interaction with a smirk, clearly enjoying the show. "See? Even the locals know their place," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "She's been tryin' to get a table for ten minutes. I reckon she'll be lucky if she gets a corner to rot in."

"You know what," Mark said, turning back to the innkeeper, "make it two brews and two bread." He picked up one of the coppers, leaving two still on the bar. "I'm feeling thirsty."

The innkeeper's eyes widened slightly at the extra copper coin. The smirk on his face shifted into a grin that showed a few missing teeth. He snatched the second copper up with surprising speed, tossing it into his pocket with a satisfied clink.

"Smart man," he grunted, grabbing two more dusty bottles and a second loaf of bread. He slid them across the counter toward Mark, the movement rough and careless. "Two brews, two breads. That'll be four coppers. You're a regular, I suppose?"

He leaned back against the counter, his gaze drifting back to the doorway where the elf was still standing. The room had grown uncomfortably quiet, the laughter from the burly man dying down as the patrons turned their attention to the newcomer. Elira stood frozen, her posture rigid, her knuckles white as she gripped the crooked wood of her staff.

The burly man, emboldened by the lack of immediate resistance, stepped closer to her. He loomed over her, his shadow falling across her small frame. He reached out a large, calloused hand and flicked the brim of her oversized hat, sending it tumbling to the floor.

"Hey, pointy," he sneered, looking down at her. "You gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna buy us a drink? We're parched."

The innkeeper shook his head, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Look at that," he muttered to Mark, his voice low. "She hasn't even got the sense to defend herself. Probably thinks she's too good for us common folk."

Mark turned and walked over to where Elira and the man stood. "Good sir, I think you've proven your point. Don't you think it's time to move on?" Just as he finished speaking, a glow began to rumble from his sword, and a spark caught the floor, leaving a black scorch mark behind.

The burly man's laughter cut off abruptly as he felt the heat radiating from the blade. He looked down at the scorched floorboards, his eyes widening in genuine surprise. The patrons nearest the table gasped, the sound rippling through the room like a wave.

"Whoa," the man muttered, taking a half-step back. He looked from the mark to Mark, his bravado faltering slightly. "You're a mage, ain't ya? I didn't see no staff."

The innkeeper leaned over the counter, his eyes glued to the glowing hilt of the sword. He looked back at Mark, his expression shifting from greed to wary respect. "Impressive," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "A mage with a blade, too? That's rare."

Elira, who had been standing frozen, finally looked up. Her pale-green eyes locked onto the black scorch mark on the floor, then traveled up to the glowing sword. For a moment, the bitterness on her face vanished, replaced by a flicker of intense curiosity. She saw the magic, raw and undeniable, and realized that Mark was different.

She took a small, hesitant step forward, her grip on her crooked staff tightening. "That's... elemental fire," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're not a normal mage."

The burly man, realizing he was outmatched, backed away a few more steps. "Alright, alright," he grumbled, rubbing his neck. "I was just havin' a little fun. No need to get your sword out." He glared at Mark one last time, then turned and stomped back to his table, muttering under his breath. The room seemed to relax, the tension draining away as the patrons realized that the newcomer was someone to be reckoned with.

The innkeeper, however, was still watching, his eyes lingering on Mark's magical backpack and cloak. "You're a powerful mage," he said, his voice low. "You're not like the others. You're not going to let her walk all over you." He looked at Elira, then back at Mark. "You want a discount? I can give you a discount. Just... don't burn my floor."

"Calm down, innkeep—there's no trouble." Mark flicked his cloak back over his sword and the glow faded. He walked back to the bar and gathered the drinks and bread. "I'll just be having these, good sir."

He carried everything to a table, settled into a chair, and made himself comfortable. When he looked up, every patron in the room was still staring, anticipating his next move. "Well, are you going to join me?" He looked at Elira and gestured to the seat beside his own. "I bought you a drink and some food after all. The least you can do is give me a little conversation while I rest." He smiled.

The room exhaled collectively as the glow faded from his sword, the tension draining out of the air along with the sparks. The burly man slumped back into his chair, nursing his drink with a scowl, while the other patrons returned to their own business, though they kept a wary eye on Mark.

Elira stood frozen a moment longer, her pale-green eyes fixed on him. She watched the way he walked, the way he carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had never been told they didn't belong. She looked at the table he gestured to, then back at the empty seat, and finally at the food and drink he was holding.

She looked down at her own worn boots, then at the burly man who had just harassed her, and finally back at Mark. A flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or just curiosity—crossed her face. She took a small, hesitant step forward, clutching her staff tighter to her chest.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice soft but clear. She walked over to his table, her movements graceful despite her shabby appearance. She sat down in the chair he had offered, her posture stiff and guarded. She didn't look at him directly at first, staring instead at the tablecloth.

"Thank you," she muttered, her voice barely audible. She reached out a trembling hand and took the bread, but she didn't eat it yet. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of mockery. "You... you didn't have to do that."

She looked down at the bread again, then back at him. "I'm Elira," she said, her voice gaining a little strength. "I'm an apprentice mage. I'm... I'm looking for a party."

She looked at him with a mix of pride and desperation. "I know I don't look like much. I know I'm just a low-level elf with a crooked stick. But I'm good. I'm really good. I just need a chance to prove it."

"A party, you say," Mark said, a smile spreading across his face. "Well, isn't that just my luck. Please eat. I only did what any respectable person would. You don't owe me anything." He leaned forward slightly. "It's nice to meet you, Elira. I'm Mark." He closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, releasing a long breath. "I'm just passing through, but I could actually use some help if you're willing to put in the effort."

Elira's ears twitched at the sound of his name. She looked at him with a mix of surprise and skepticism, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Mark," she repeated, testing the sound of it on her tongue. "An arch mage, I presume? Or just a traveler with a fancy sword?"

She picked up the bread, tearing it apart with her fingers, but she didn't eat it yet. She looked at him with a guarded expression. "You're an arch mage?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That explains the fancy cloak and the magic. I should have known. Most arch mages are too busy looking down their noses at the rest of us to bother with someone like me."

She took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. "But you bought me a drink. That's more than most people do. So, I'll bite. What kind of help do you need? And what's the catch? I'm not looking for charity, Mark. I'm looking for a party that will actually let me do my job."

She set the bread down on the table, wiping her hands on her trousers. "I'm good with fire and lightning. I can cast a few—"

"You know my class, you're smart. Good." Mark paused, thinking for a second. "The catch? The catch… hmm, let's see." He considered it, then shrugged. "The catch is, you have to relax a little. How's that sound to you? Here's the deal: you train to your best, you help only your share of things — nothing less, nothing more — and you'll get half of the spoils. Equal partners. What do you say to that? Fair enough for you?"

Elira stared at him, her pale-green eyes wide with disbelief. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, her jaw working silently. The sarcasm she usually wore like armor seemed to have momentarily evaporated, leaving her looking almost vulnerable.

"Equal partners?" she finally breathed out, the words hanging in the air between them. "You… you'd give an elf half of the loot? After everything I've been through? Most humans wouldn't even give me a free drink."

She looked down at her own hands, still stained with the mud and grime from the road. She flexed her fingers, remembering the countless times she'd been told she was lucky to get scraps. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, but it was tinged with a bitter edge.

"You're an odd one, Mark," she said, shaking her head slightly. "You have the power of an arch mage, but you talk to me like I'm a person. Not a servant, not a pet, not a charity case."

She picked up the bread again, taking a large bite, chewing quickly as if she hadn't eaten in days. She swallowed hard, then looked up at him, her eyes fierce. "I accept," she said, her voice firm. "I'll train until my fingers bleed. I'll do my share of the work. And I'll take my half of the spoils."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her gaze intense. "But you should know, Mark. I'm not just some pretty face with a crooked stick. I can cast a fireball that'll make your sword look like a toothpick. And I can summon lightning from the sky if I need to. I just need a chance to prove it."

She took a long drink of the ale, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "So, what's the first job? I'm ready when you are."