Year 4880, Month of the Seedling
Today, I stand at the precipice of a new life, the hallowed halls of the Academy of Arcane Arts beckoning me forth. I, Thaddeus Brightwing, son of the illustrious Elara Brightwing, begin my chronicle of magical education under the watchful eye of the Dragon Imperium.
With quill in hand, I record my thoughts, aspirations, and journey through my education. The legacy of my mother looms large over me even now in these early days. Her work for the Imperium puts me against a legacy I hope I can live up to.
As I embark on this path, I am filled with a profound respect for the order and structure that the Imperium represents. It is a bastion of knowledge and power, a place where I hope to flourish and contribute to the greater good of Zæthéria.
In these pages, I shall document my progress, the unfolding of my potential, and the lessons learned from masters and tomes alike. I enter this chapter of my life as a Brightwing, eager to soar on the winds of arcane discovery and uphold the values that my mother has instilled in the fabric of this institution.
Let this journal serve as a testament to my beginnings, a record of a young mage's quest for enlightenment in the realm of the arcane. May the journey be as enlightening as the destination, and may the name Brightwing continue to be synonymous with the pursuit of magical excellence.
T. Brightwing
Year 4882, Month of the Harvest
The autumn leaves of the Blackwood Forest are aflame with the colours of change. The forest, which I discovered only last year, has become a sanctuary for my thoughts.
I find myself at a crossroads. The teachings of the Academy, once a source of wonder, now seem to constrict the breadth of my aspirations. The rules and regulations, the ethical boundaries, they bind the hands of those who dare to dream beyond the mundane.
Today's lesson was a stark reminder of the Imperium's iron grip on magic. A fellow student, a friend, was reprimanded for merely questioning the nature of a spell deemed too dangerous by our superiors. It is this fear of the unknown, this reluctance to explore the full spectrum of arcane potential, that I find increasingly suffocating.
As I retreat to the solitude of the forest, the shadows embrace me, offering solace and understanding. Here, I am free to delve into the mysteries that the Academy would shun.
The name Brightwing now feels like a chain. I yearn for a name that encapsulates the depth of my resolve, a name that resonates with the untamed essence.
Let this entry mark the beginning of that metamorphosis. Let it be known that on this day, Thaddeus Brightwing glimpsed the path less traveled. A path that leads into the heart of the Blackwood.
T. Brightwing
Year 4883, Month of the Bud
Today, the air is heavy with the intoxicating scent of blossoms, the world stirring anew with vibrant life, yet my thoughts remain ensnared in the thorny brambles of the past. Amidst this resurgence of growth, I find myself wrestling with the peculiarities of my own existence. My relationship with Mother is a tangled web—a complex tapestry woven with strands of reverence, frustration, and an ever-present shadow of suspicion.
Mother speaks nothing of my father; she shrouds his identity in a veil of silence, claiming ignorance that I find impossible to believe. A woman of her immense stature and far-reaching connections could surely unveil such truths if she so desired. Does she withhold this knowledge to protect me from some unfathomable truth, or is she safeguarding her own secrets? The ambiguity eats away at me, a persistent whisper at the fringes of my consciousness.
She often recounts the tale of my birth—a story that only deepens the enigma of my being. I entered this world not with the lusty cries of a newborn but in profound silence, my eyes wide and contemplative, as if already questioning the world around me. From that moment, it was evident that I was different. As a child, I spoke and walked long before others, mastering these skills with an unsettling ease that brought both pride and a flicker of concern to Mother's eyes. There was always that hint of apprehension, as if she sensed a strangeness within me that she could neither name nor understand.
My very existence defies the natural order. Mother, an elf of pure lineage, should have borne a child of elven blood or at least a half-elf. Yet here I stand, undeniably human—a living contradiction. This anomaly has been a source of quiet torment, fostering a sense of isolation that clings to me like a shadow. I am caught between worlds, a being forged by forces I scarcely comprehend.
The weight of Mother's legacy bears down upon me like an unyielding yoke. Her achievements are monumental—a towering beacon of magical prowess and virtuous accomplishment. She is the epitome of light and order, a legacy that I am expected to uphold without question. Yet, the deeper I immerse myself in the teachings of the Dragon Imperium, the more their rigid doctrines chafe against my spirit. Their rules, once a beacon of guidance, now feel like manacles, binding the true potential of magic and stifling the very essence of discovery.
A restless yearning stirs within me—a craving for freedom, for a path unburdened by the crushing expectations of my heritage and the suffocating constraints of the Imperium. The Blackwood Forest whispers to me in my dreams, its secrets weaving through my mind like tendrils of mist. It promises solace, knowledge, and a liberation the hallowed halls of the Academy cannot provide. There is a darkness burgeoning within me, a shadow that seeks to eclipse the mold cast by Mother and the Imperium.
For now, I must tread carefully, navigating the delicate balance between outward reverence for Mother's legacy and the burgeoning discontent that festers within me. The answers I seek lie hidden in the shadows, and I am steadfast in my resolve to unearth them. No matter the cost, I will carve my own path through the tangled undergrowth of expectation and control.
T. Brightwing
Year 4883, Month of the Gloom
The chill of the Gloom month seeps into the bones, a constant companion in the Blackwood Forest where I now spend much of my time. I am no longer the Brightwing scion; I am of Blackwood itself.
Today, I stand at the precipice of a revelation that has shattered the remnants of my former self. The discovery of Andumar's Emerald Flame—a spell of such devastating power and cruelty that it has been struck from all records by the Dragon Imperium. A fire that consumes flesh and spirit alike, leaving wounds that never heal, a pain that is eternal.
It is with this spell that I have marked my departure from the path laid before me by the Academy, by my mother, by the Imperium. The experiment that led to the creation of the Necrofalcon, my once-beloved Skycrest now reborn in undeath, was a testament to my newfound power.
Yet, as I gaze upon the Necrofalcon, I am struck by a pang of... regret? No, not regret, but a recognition of the price of this power. The creature is bound to my will, yet it is a shadow of its former self.
I have unleashed this power upon another—a mage who dared to challenge me. The Emerald Flame consumed him, and in that moment, I felt a surge of triumph. But as the green fire died down, I was left with the smoldering remains of what once was a peer, a colleague. The weight of my actions bears down upon me, a burden I had not anticipated.
I am committed to this journey, no matter the toll.
T. Brightwing Blackwood
Year 4884, Month of the Sunpeak
The oppressive heat of Sunpeak bears down upon the Academy, each relentless ray a searing reminder of my growing discontent. The very air seems thick with expectation, suffocating any breath of individuality I might muster. Family—a word that once evoked warmth and belonging—now feels hollow and mocking. My mother, the oh-so-esteemed founder and Archmage of this grand institution, has become a distant figure, wrapped tightly in layers of duty and her own self-importance.
She spares me nary a glance amidst her endless councils and the procession of sycophants vying for her approval. When she does acknowledge my existence, it's a litany of critiques and impossible demands. Her eyes, which once held a glimmer of maternal affection, now reflect only disappointment—or worse, a cold indifference that cuts deeper than any blade. She sets standards so unattainable that failure is the only option she's left me. I can't even summon hatred for her; that would require a passion she no longer stirs in me. Instead, I am left with a simmering annoyance, a dull ache of detachment where familial love should reside.
Our family motto haunts me: "Sog-Ey-Mi-Pyr-Ey-Ru-Do-Ey-Sog-Ish-Do-Ey-Ru-Azi-Ru-Ish." Etched into every stone of our ancestral home, it proclaims, "Born for greatness, limitless and free." Once, these words filled me with purpose.
Now, they feel like a bitter jest at my expense. How am I to achieve greatness when I'm constantly bound by the chains they've forged for me? How can I be limitless and free when every aspect of my life is dictated by my mother's suffocating expectations and the Imperium's stifling regulations?
It's maddening—the very institutions that tout our family's creed are the ones tightening the noose around my neck. The Dragon Imperium's rigid grip on magic throttles innovation, their fear of the unknown shackling those who dare to explore the true depths of the arcane. My mother's towering legacy doesn't illuminate my path; it casts an impenetrable shadow that obscures any light I might bring into the world.
Perhaps it's time to accept that I'll never reach my full potential under their watchful, judging eyes. If attaining greatness means breaking these unbearable chains, then let them shatter. I refuse to be smothered by those who consider themselves my superiors or limited by their narrow definitions of what is acceptable. Beyond their imposed boundaries lies a vast realm of untamed magic, a world where true freedom and power await—unclaimed and unrestricted.
Maybe true greatness lies in casting off the expectations of others and forging a new path entirely—one where I answer only to myself. If defying the Imperium and stepping out from under my mother's overbearing shadow is what it takes, then that is a price I'm more than willing to pay. The pursuit of authentic freedom, perhaps even liberation from the ultimate constraint of death itself, is a venture worthy of any risk.
I was born for greatness, limitless and free. It's high time I embraced the true essence of those words and seized the destiny that is rightfully mine.
T. Blackwood
Year 4884, Month of the Eclipse
I have shed the name Brightwing like an old skin, a husk of a past life that clings to me with the tenacity of a dying breath. The name Blackwood is my truth, my essence.
My hands tremble with the anticipation of the ritual to come.
The Academy, the Imperium, my mother they were but stepping stones to my current self, and now they stand as obstacle to my future. I can feel my mothers disappointment, a weight that threatens to crush me, yet I cannot, will not, let it halt my ascent.
I am the architect of a new me, death will be nothing but a triviality to be brushed aside.
I will be eternal.
Blackwood
Comments