The time for fighting was drawing nearer, and Penn Flynn was afeared.
Penn was not yet a full-fledged warlock, but a warlock-in-training, eagerly awaiting his Initiation. It was a young warlock’s greatest accomplishment: his Initiation into his coven of choice. The skills learnt by one’s coven were nothing short of invaluable, but they could not be shared with those outside the coven. Penn understood this very well. It had been drilled into his mind by Nova Nightwolf, an Elder and one of the most respected in all of Uspax. The Nightwolfs were a prominent duo, though they were rarely questioned; it was common knowledge to all that they be obeyed.
“Good morrow,” boomed the voice of the High Elf Zentha, second-in-command. It roared so loudly over the nation that Penn himself had nearly fallen over in fright. “T’is but a dreary day, as the eve of the Night of the Moon near approaches. Let us not give ourselves over to Fear, but find it within ourselves to fight without remorse.” This was a happening every year, Penn had noticed: a voice so trilling it could belong only to a High Elf herself, making the most ghastly of announcements leading up to the Night. Penn supposed it would not be hell to find oneself an Ordinary on the Night of the Moon. For as dull and common as they were, the Ordinaries always found themselves exempt.
It had begun as a way to combat overpopulation, Penn had been told. Alas, he had realised, alas it had become mere entertainment for the Elves. Mere entertainment, as though Penn and the rest of Uspax were naught but playthings.
Nova Nightwolf had himself perched at the top of Glyfyx Peak, his arms outstretched to the statue of Drarlod Riversun. “Come, my brothers, and let us praise Drarlod. Drarlod, Great and Mighty, let us find ourselves at your mercy during moments of despair!”
Many of the warlocks of the Mystic Circle felt as though they had things to prove. Though Penn was young, he showed great potential: an affirmation that was told to him by his mentor, Stellan Trapp. The elder warlock was a man of tremendous ability, a man Penn greatly admired. The man himself stood across the circle of the coven, his arms stretched upward to the sky, his voice leading the chorus of praise.
There was much to do before the Night of the Moon. It was an event that occurred annually: the High Elves’ way of preventing overpopulation in the nation. This had never been a terrible ordeal before, Penn know. Crepegrum had not always been this way. Only when the races began threatening to intermingle did the lawbook come into existence. Before this, many years before Penn was born, the land was lawless and fertile, thriving on the freedom and liveliness of its residents. But the Half-Breeds had gone extinct many years ago, and were never to be again, for the High Elves had made it so. The High Elves had made everything so.
The chanting of the coven rose through the land: roaring louder and more deeply as the night went on. Penn had a strange livelihood, and he had many secrets. He supposed, as did most of the faction, most of the nation, for it was a secretive place. It had become that way over hundred of long, gruelling years, after revelations started feuds and ended lives. Crepegrum was not a place of peace and harmony. Penn wondered if, before the Ruins had become of the land of Earth, it had been the same. “Let us praise Drarlod,” he sang, joining his brothers in the prayer of their coven. “For without he, our lives would be but wasted, out spirits forced to dwell in the shadows of the nation.” His Initiation had snuck on him rather quickly, and now it was only mere months away. If he were not prepared, Nova Nightwolf would be most displeased.
“My sons,” said Nova, his hands still outstretched to the sky, his dark face most perturbing under the light of the moon, “I implore you. Find it within yourselves to be courageous, and to be kind, for this is the will of Drarlod, and his will is final.” A single time a month, on the eve of the Full Moon, the Mystic Circle gathered not at Tolrusir Hill, but inside the walls of Rustpointe. This was to ensure the safety of the coven, for the night of the Full Moon was wrought with many a terror, and from them there was no escape. But that year there would be Thirteen Moons, and this was always cause for an extra night of prayer.
Penn Flynn was the son of simple Ordinaries, and careless they were not. Ordinaries were not oft the most careless of folk, but some had become that way over time. Penn was the only son of the simple Ordinaries: misunderstood, forbidden from embracing his true self in the home of his mother and father. This was the way it had always been. Though his relations with Stellan were not forbidden by law, the warlocks were not welcome in the home of the Ordinaries, and so their mentorship remained a secret. After all, there is many a secret in the nation of Crepegrum, and many of theses secrets would, if uncovered, lead to casualty.
“Let us talk about each of you.” Nova was not an unfriendly man, but he had been hardened by years of war, and he was no longer carefree. “Let us discuss your emerging powers, my sons. Have any of you discovered yourselves further, since our last meeting? We cannot speak much longer, for the Moon is nearly risen, but I would most value hearing from each one of you.”
Penn was not usually one to volunteer. He was quite shy, and had not many abilities, as he was just fourteen and hadn’t yet learned all the ways of Drarlod. There was much to be learned, still. His mentor Stellan, though armless and not threatening at first glance, was a practiced fighter, and he had taught Penn much of what he knew. When it came to the sharing of self-discovery, Penn was not a boy of many words; rather, he listened far more than he spoke, and he had always been this way. Stellan Trapp, a warlock of twenty nine, lowered his covered arms underneath the moonlight, and felt forlorn. “Alas, I have spoken to mine brother once again.” The brother of Stellan, unacceptably, was a Dark Warlock, and Stellan had been made very shameful by this fact. “He is not willing to emerge from the Night of the Moon without a battle.”
This was unsurprising to most. The Dark Mages, though they resided in Uspax with the rest, were stubborn folk. They had been made this way by life and defeat.
Nova lowered his arms as well, after kissing once the towering statue of Drarlod Riversun. “I feared this, though it is to be expected. Worry not, my son Stellan, for we are a coven of competence, and our sisters in the Mystic Circle will leave us not abandoned on the Night of the Moon. I am not feared of the outcome.” Nova was not feared, but Penn could not say the same. The year prior, the Night of the Moon had ended in much bloodshed, and Penn had emerged, but he was not unscathed. This had been many months ago, when Penn was a boy, and before he had learned from Stellan. Perhaps the upcoming Night, he was pestered to think, he would be more skillful.
There was a howl in the night. Penn had not met a werewolf, though he had no doubt they existed. Many strange creatures existed there. He had found himself to September, the faerie of Fortune: Indigo, the faerie of love and lust, and many other creatures that he could not keep in his memory. There were far too many to have knowledge of them all.
As the moon continued its ascent, Nova removed himself from the edge of the hill and waved his hand, shutting out all of the many lights outside the chapel. “I must bid you all goodnight, now; it has gotten late, and there is much to be done tomorrow. Come hither, sons, come lie your lips upon the face of Drarlod, and do not forget to be courageous and kind.” Having finished his speech, Nova disappeared from the side of a hill with a pop, like the popping of a garbled youth on bubblegum. Penn had not yet learned the art of Dissipation, which angered him, but there was much to learn. A warlock had many years of practice, and one could not expect to gain the competence of an Elder before becoming an Elder themselves.
The powers of a magical child usually began to show themselves before the child’s tenth birthday. If a child became ten and had not yet been immersed into the world of magic, they were not Special, but an Ordinary, and they were forbidden from remaining in the land of the Special children. There had been stories not many years ago of children separated, borne of the same blood and bone, but not the same. There had been stories of children favouritized, others cast away for being Ordinary, others refusing to be Special and banished from the nation. Sometimes, a Special child was banished to
Oswaria, forced to live as a mere mortal among Ordinaries, for their parents refused to accept them. After a while, a Banished Special would lose their abilities, and become a real Ordinary, and nobody wished for this. Nobody wished to be Ordinary. The race themselves had no idea they were any different, and to many, that was pitiable.
Stellan oft met Penn after dark: sometimes at the peak of the hill, and other times at his own home. For Stellan was nearly an Elder, and lived alone in the centre of Uspax, childless and unmarried, his only companion an eld chameleon. He was often weary and was not a man of cheer or assertiveness. Penn found this rather refreshing: a teacher of magick who was neither loud nor aggressive. He had found this not to be true for many who taught the art.
“Teach me, my liege.” Penn spoke for the first time since arriving at the hill. “Teach me the art of Dissipation and Control.” There were many spells to be learnt, and a warlock was meant to be patient, for his time would come when it came. “Please, I would very much enjoy being as skillful as you, but I am just a boy, and I am skilled not.” He feared it would be a downfall in the battle, the small amount of knowledge he had gained, but perhaps he could find a mage more capable than he and remain by his side.
“My brother, I fear you are getting ahead of yourself.” The arm of Stellan had been lost many years ago, before even the birth of Penn, and so that was how he always knew the man. “I cannot teach you everything at once, though I know you are weary to learn. It takes many years to gain the knowledge of a full-fledged Warlock.” Penn was aware of this. Perhaps he would go tomorrow to the Sisters of the Setting Sun, for he found it most efficacious to air his worries with a woman. He had always found witches to be far more understanding, and so he sometimes preferred them.
“We will meet tomorrow, then?” The boy had school, a necessity for young witches and warlocks. “Can I expect you to prepare me for the Night of the Moon? I am sorry; I’m rather an impatient boy. I think it would be very beneficial for me to practice the art of Patience.”
Stellan was not a man who smiled often, but in that moment he found it a challenge to control himself. “Yes, it would. You must learn to refuse your temper in the midst of battle, or you will find yourself in a place of trouble. Now,” he waved his hand, and in it appeared a goblet. “drink, Penn, and you will find yourself capable of much more than ever before.” It was a Potion of Confidence; Stellan always gave these to the boy before he practiced, for he knew Penn was an insecure warlock, and no one could have that. “Now be off, and immerse yourself in all that you have been taught. I will see you tomorrow.” Stellan placed the goblet in the hand of Penn, and he too Dissipated from the peak of the hill.
