Bryon

In the early morning at the break of dawn's first rays, the Magister, Eironn, Lyca, Lorsan and Bryon departed for the Vaduso mountains in search of master Arden-- One of the sages-- at Granny Dahnie's behest. The task of cleansing the vile corruption from each root near the sacred tree has left the fabled mage with little to no magic to spare, yet there is still more to purify, the Lucent tree still very much in danger of falling prey to the corruption cast upon it by the Adamant Syndicates and that Graveborn lady in black working in cahoots with Eomir, that traitor...

Along the way Bryon remained solemnly silent as he leads the way to the Vaduso mountains, mind clouded with restlessness and worry-- Worry for the people of their home, the Dark Forest, the Lucent tree, worry for the people at the Taran village, for the Magister and what perilous enemies could await. Such thoughts and feelings of great twisting unease churned in his head and heart, but on the surface he appears unfazed and tranquil as still water. His face an impassive mask of neutrality like usual as he carries on marching dutifully, straining his hearing for any potential sign of danger on their path. Elona perches on his shoulder, making small noises of wary unease, just as restless as he is. Still, Bryon carries on without wavering.

Trees, fields and bushes gave way to vast plains and staggering mountains in the distance, the sun rolling up onto the horizon signaling mid-afternoon. The skies were clear blue, yet the faint scent of rain promised a ferocious downpour. Still, the journey was long and neither the Windwhisperer nor his travel companions could stop for a break. As they continued on with their resolute march forth, afternoon seeped into nightfall, half of the distance behind their backs with more still to cross. Night slipped into dawn, morning slowly crept into mid-afternoon.

And so, with a few scuffles here and there with some rogue Thorn Guard members, monsters and ruffians-- The five of them had at last arrived to their destination where another problem awaited. The Taran river has been poisoned, the corruption having spread much farther and faster than anyone of them had originally anticipated. A situation that they resolved swiftly, bringing the healing spirit's dewdrops to brew a cure for the sickly. It didn't help with his coiling restlessness, hearing the coughing of children, their delirious words that were hardly coherent and comprehensible, the distressed families and the pitter-patter of rain. An abnormal rain, one that carries the corruption that has spread to the Taran river and poisoned the village. A downpour that carries disease to those who swallow even a single drop. What is more concerning, was the rumbling growls of aggravated horned leafbears in the distance approaching, tainted by the foul poison, their steps heavy. Accompanying them, are a plethora of monsters.

But, alas, the stream of bad luck and unwelcome surprised only kept coming as yet another sullied root was found dangerously close to the Akademy he, Lorsan and Lyca studied at. Grandpa Arden stayed behind, there, to hold up the protective ward alongside Miss Florabelle, keep the children safe from the wave of tainted horned leafbears and gruglings coming from the east side in droves. Defeating the monsters was an arduous task as some appeared to be immune to his wind 'arrows', the projectiles pelting them barely leaving a scratch-- pierced only by Lyca's arrows and Eironn's twin swords. The Magister, too, helped turn the tide in favor-- Casting spell after spell, healing their wounds and ensuring the team stayed alive, survived the encounter. After that, the outlander turned their attention to the vine, mustering up what little few drops of mana they'd recovered into a purifying spell. The corruption lifted, the moss on the root returned to its former lush green, flowers blooming and the rotting stench gave way to pleasant familiar fragrance. The swordsman could only mark the root's location on the map with his pen before another horde surged into the mountain village. He did his best to fend them off, many fell at his blades, but the stream of monsters had no end in sight.

In the end, Grandpa Arden, upon recognizing the great Magister Merlin's drained state and inability to fight any longer-- Gave instructions to retreat and regroup. Bryon still found it hard to believe that the outlander his old friend invited is the mighty Magister from the tales he's heard time and time again in hushed whispers back home. Or back when Elona had returned with the leaf bearing Lorsan's message, news of having found a mage that can help resolve the crisis. Some part of him still couldn't quite wrap itself around it.

---"Bryon, take the great Magister to safe zone." The first time the young man hears his, their teacher, so grim and serious. Not once in the many years of their lives did any of them hear Grandpa Arden sound this solemn, grey bushy brows furrowed in somber concern. Despite their tomfoolery throughout their years of growing over that past century, he had always remained light-hearted and almost deceptively carefree whilst still offering deep wisdom and knowledge.

Now that is no longer the case, the elder's calm yet firm tone brooking no room for argument.

"Lorsan, Lyca, Eironn- Stay with us here."

Heavy silence settles over them as the four of them exchange a look amidst one another. Lorsan was most evidently rattled, a few words of disbelief on his tongue that he barely manages to hold back, trusting in the sage's choice tentatively. Lyca wasn't any calmer than her Windwhisperer brother, her grip on her bow tightening in grim apprehension. To her right, Bryon remained seemingly unfazed by the directive given, thought his friends could sense internally he's far from this illusory, deceptive calm. Thunder roars overhead, rain pelting the land as though the Wildmother silently weeps in agony the spreading, barely halted corruption brings her. Weeping for her children whom fell, for her children still suffering. Similarly to the blindfolded messenger, Eironn kept quiet, face a mask of neutrality like still water. While inwardly he was anything but. The urge to object, protest, bubbled up within his heart for a moment but... He heard it with his own ears moments ago, the dull heavy thud of a body collapsing onto the muddy soil in utter exhaustion-- Without the mage, they are at a strong disadvantage. These foes are too strong for us at the current moment. Staying here only puts the Magister in peril...

With a heavy, sinking heart, the Windwhisperer dutifully walks over to them, listening to the murmurs of his friends. Mutters of hope that the protective ward the mage has cast over the village after knocking back the horde will keep them safe for the time being. Before the Magister collapsed onto the grass, drained of mana. Picking them up, Bryon leaves the area without daring to look back again, leaving his three childhood friends to stay behind and help Arden and Florabelle protect the village from under Merlin's ward. As per the old sage's, his mentor's directive.

Dear sacred Spirit, please protect them. Please help guide us through this peril.

Bryon fled-- Fled back into the safe cornucopia of the Dark Forest, away from the Vaduso mountains. Away from the swarmed mountain village, guilt and worry gnawing at him like decay alongside the restless unease churning in the depths of his heart. A small part of him, deep down, felt the cold sting of anger at the instruction given. How could Grandpa Arden send him away while the others stayed behind? Would they endure the scourge while he and the mage are gone? He has said it himself not too long ago-- Compared to the magic of the Magister Merlin, their spells are crude.

...Except said mage is currently down, out of commission. All the more reason for his concern, anxiousness. As much it pains him, claws at his heart--Bryon couldn't help but wonder if his teacher, too, has lost his mind just like Eomir did....Only to shoo the thought away, the doubt that feels like blasphemy to even cross his mind for a second. Still it crept and settled, coiled in his mind. If the fabled mage fell, couldn't keep on fighting, what's left for them--For the old Elder, Lorsan, Lyca, Eironn and Miss Florabelle? Swallowing down his nagging maelstrom of conflicting emotions and frayed thoughts, the Windwhisperer keeps moving, listening to the flapping of bird wings and whistling of wind as his feathery companion flies overhead, forcing himself to stay calm. Grandpa Arden has his reasons. He knows what he is doing. Or so he hopes, for everyone's sake. This is a bold gamble with stakes too high to fail. In the end he arrives back at Lunadorf after two days and one night of travel, greeted by the hopeful, wary, expectant gazes of the uncertain, concerned and confused residents, his fellow Wilders.

Not having the heart to tell them of the events and lower their weary spirits further, Bryon strides past them stiffly, keeping his lips pressed into a thin taut line as he walks to the Magister's lodging, carrying their prone form with dutiful resolve. If only he himself could believe his own words of optimism, of hope that sound like nothings and empty promises to his ears. As much Bryon wishes he could believe his own words of reassurance--- He knows the grim truth, the cold, unforgiving reality.

Laying them down onto the bed carefully, he lingers for just enough to look them over for injuries then saunters back outside, keeping his steps soundless to avoid waking them. Stepping out into the crisp night air with a heavy mind and heart, he takes a deep steadying breath to still his scattered thoughts...And strides over to the Lucent tree at the village's heart not too far from the outlander's temporary home. A light, cold breeze sweeps and sways his hair as he stands before the towering, looming weeping willow.

The stars blink down at him in the sky.