The wandering mage

There’s a human desire to remember, and to be remembered. Aton Heru is no different, despite how many times he tries to convince himself of it. He grow up under the harsh light of the desert sun, and the freedom that came from it. He loved the village he came from, growing up dashing between stalls selling food, he now only sees in his dreams. He loved playing with the other kids until the sun dipped below the mounds of sand in the distance. But now he walks through it alone, the only evidence left he ever existed on his land and breathed this air is the shallow shoe prints trailing behind his path, the prints that would soon be swept over as the wind carries the sand as far as the eye can see.

His childhood ended as he learned of his abilities, he was born with magic flowing through his veins, and it had eventually grown so strong that it could no longer be ignored. The Elest empire took over his land when he was young, and came with them was their laws, the crushing oppression guided by the emperor. He left by his own free will, if they found that his parent were concealing his blood, his parents would lose much more then just him. And so he condemned himself to a life of wandering, moving when the sun sets and finding shelter during the days. He found small jobs to earn small cash, to keep him moving and concealed.

It was a particularly dark night, and as he pushed himself through the frigid cold that is sept across the sand as the sun set, he nearly trips on a pile of cloth below him, not yet registering it as person. When the pile below lets out a wince he kneels down to check. Eventually he’s carrying the limp body of a stranger to his room for the day. He can’t leave them outside alone, even if they have warm looking clothes for the night, when the deserts starts heating in the morning they won’t make it very long.

“So your not dead,” he says when their eyes finally flicker, his voice is monotoned, preoccupied as he packs his things. They’re in a small space, the utter lack of personal touch gives away its status as a inn room. “Care to explain the markings on your arms?” The question doesn’t come off as accusatory with the casual way he says it, but it creates a tension in the room. He had taken off their outer layer of cloths, in an attempt to help cool them down; despite the room being sheltered, it’s still hot. And he had happened to find the ink etched into their skin with pinpoint precision. He’s turned around now, eyes baring straight into their soul.