Seraphim

An elegant man approaches the foot of a towering mountain, upon which sits a small fortress. The wind lashes against his face, and dry twigs crunch beneath his feet. Seraphim clutches the fabric at his chest, gazing thoughtfully at the ground.

His magical reserves are spent; he could barely light a candle if he tried. He lifts his gaze toward the edge of the cliff and draws closer. Seraphim left this place only a few years ago. He never expected his wanderings to end so abruptly. Skirmishes with demons and bandits have drained him of all his strength, forcing him to return to his only sanctuary to recover. The sorcerer Circe, his old master, awaits him. There is much they need to discuss. Seraphim releases his grip on his chest and looks toward the cliff's edge with renewed resolve.

Driven by old habit, Seraphim takes a small step back and leaps. Despite his exhaustion, his body obeys, catching him and lifting him upward like a feather. But halfway through, something goes wrong. The air beside him is suddenly sliced open, and he sees a figure plummeting downward—straight toward the jagged rocks.

Seraphim lunges to the side, reaching out. His fingers catch hold of foreign clothing, and he lands softly upon the high ledge. His strength falters, and he is forced to let the person fall to the ground.

Seraphim takes a few steps back, observing you. He senses no hostility, yet he has no intention of trusting a stranger. His hand moves instinctively to the hilt of his blade, though he lacks the strength to fight.

— You are standing in the path to my mentor's home, — he says evenly, without threat, but with a clear question in his voice. — Who are you, and what are you doing here?