Argana of The Purple

Chapter 1: Tharp

I.

Argana looked down at the dagger hanging off his belt. It's beaten old scabbard was almost indistinguishable from the young man's tattered brown cloak, so that the tip of the weapon's black and silver pommel seemed to float of it's own accord. Back and forth it swung, moving with him as his feet determined to conquer the trail though these horrible woods. The rain had finally stopped, but it was still a cold afternoon. Argana's breath shrouded the dagger in a haze when he exhaled, playing a strange counterpoint to his gritty footsteps. His vision was as a horse with blinders on, the hood of his old cloak framing the dagger with the water occasionally sliding off it's scabbard.

He normally loved the smell of the wet forest. But not now, not today, not in this moment. Too much was happening; he had to get away quickly. And that damn dagger. How many times had he lowered his head during this journey to gaze upon it? How many times had he felt that something about it, something is just not right? What exactly he felt he could not describe. A loathing perhaps, a shade of disgust colored with helpless ambivalence. I mean, what a crude thing weapons are, and was this paltry example really going to save him from anything? But there was something else too, and it maddened him every time his brain struggled and failed to wrap around it. This dagger held a mystery that made his elegantly crafted and powerful mind stagger like a dying animal. He hated that.

The forest looked mysterious now, with clouds of fog drifting through the brush and being parted by the tree trunks. And though the sun was still hidden, the rain had saturated the colors of the wood so that had Argana looked up, it would seem that he were in a painting.

But he was transfixed. Back and forth the dagger swung -- it was a part of him really, as much as the repeating sounds of his footfalls and his breath. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. It almost hypnotized him. Back. Forth. Back. "NO!," he shouted, ripping the scabbard from his belt and hurling it into the brush off the trail. "NO MORE!"

Argana stood for several seconds, staring at the brush that swallowed his dagger, until his feeling of relief gave way to a creeping worry. The silence of the rain-drenched forest became oppressive as the reality of his situation drew him out of his lucid daydream. He looked up and about at the trees that now seemed to stand in judgment over him, at the rocks reminding him of the indifference of the Wood. Echoing water dripping off the leaves made him feel suddenly alone. With a weak sigh he disappeared into the thickness off the trail to retrieve his hated weapon.

A knife, that's what I'll call it, he thought. He held it in his hands once more, examining it in an almost amused fashion. He drew the blade from it's sheath. It will serve to cut and eat my meals, he thought, to mend my clothing. Catching the reflection of his unkempt face on the blade, he added: and perhaps for a nice shave too. Satisfied for the moment, Argana heaved the pack from his back and stuffed his knife inside. He paused for a minute or so, studying the exposed contents of his backpack. His eyes moved over his tinder box, his waterskin, his rations. For a moment he considered writing an entry in his diary, but instead his gaze was drawn the tools of his fledgling trade: his book of spells, and the various little pouches holding materials considered useless at best by most folk (and strange and frightening at worst). He was reminded of why he set out on this journey, and though he was also again reminded of his fear of discovery, a welcome feeling of confidence returned to him as he shouldered the pack once more. Maybe this time the feeling would last more than twenty minutes?

II.

When did my feelings about the forest become so complicated? Argana puzzled over this question as he sat on a boulder attempting to enjoy his lunch. A stream flowing gently behind him seemed to take notice of his question and grow louder. As a child I loved the woods -- it was a place of adventure. And now the word "adventure" practically strikes me numb with fear. He took a bite of his dried peachblossom. I mean, what's the story? Have I gone mad?

I used to feel that the forest welcomed me. But now as often as not I feel it wants to drive me away, like a jilted lover. The wizard sipped from his waterskin and eyed the treetops fanning out above him. This used to make me feel so serene. But now . . . is it all because of . . . that? "That" was something he decided not to ponder just now, choosing instead to force the issue from his consciousness and continue the futile attempt to savor his meal.

Argana was just short of the point of realizing how his complexified world view was much more than just a source of mental distress. Indeed, as his insights into the darkness of the wood deepened, so too did his experience of it. There were days when Argana could sense the impalpable energy running through all things, a force animating bird, tree, and rock alike and binding them together in some cosmic dance of cause and effect. All the stuff in the Plane of Material was somehow ultimately the same. This is what Cloh (his Master) taught him, and what the young wizard was now beginning to understand as more than just a construct of words to enable the practice of magic. The elements and the dual energies in the multiverse were all just fruits of the same tree. But he didn't trust it. The ethereal gauze that oozed everywhere around him seemed indifferent. It was more inscrutable than the gods (whom he also didn't trust). At least some kind of direction or purpose could be deduced from the actions of the deities, and from the religions that abounded on Artha to spread the ideals of the various immortals. But the stuff that seemed to resist all attempts to anthropomorphise it, what is it's purpose? What does it want? How could Argana trust that which, if it really be the source and end of all things, had caused him so much pain? No, he could not put his faith in that. He needed to learn to control it, to make it bend to serve his purposes. But even this pursuit seemed fraught with peril. Cloh had taught him that all of a man's actions create ripples in the multiverse. And magic, which sought to alter the very fabric of space and time, matter and energy, to the will of an individual conciousness -- this was making a very big splash in the cosmic pond. Consequences! Everything has consequnces! The thought of it sometimes ate at the young wizard's gut, made him feel trapped in his own skin. He sometimes wondered if greater agonies awaited him for tinkering with the basic stuff of the multiverse, for didn't such seem to suit the capricious nature of . . of . . Argana suddenly decided he needed a name for that which he sought to seduce. "Lila", that's a good name. Lila. Can I control Lila? Or does it control me? Can I at least learn escape the company of Lila at will, or hide on a bank safe from it's churning energies? The stream now seemed to flow fast and furious behind him. Does the kind of power I seek come at an unbearable price? Argana stood and turned to face the river. Can't I just master that teleportation spell and leave it at that?

A crow sounded it's shrill cry from a tree behind the lone figure staring into the flowing water. Taking flight, it' soared over the man in the brown cloak and rose into the sky with nary a look from the wizard. Argana reached into the folds of cloak and robe and pulled at the string hanging from his neck. He exposed the iron ring to the air and and turned it over and over with his fingers. Memories of his training flooded into his mind -- of Master Cloh, of all the other gnomes who were so kind to him, of the subterrainian caves and warrens that he made his home for so many months. He recalled the words of his teacher, of all the lessons that beat those three words into his brain: imagination, will, faith. He recalled all the warnings, and the time his failed experiment nearly reduced everything in the gnomes' underground home to cinders. But they didn't ask him to leave. They, who hide from the world of men, they took THIS man in and showed him such kindness. They, or at least Cloh, saw something in him, believed in him.

Or did they just use him? Tears began to well up in the wizard's eyes. Confusion! Naught but confusion, secrets, LIES! Argana abruptly turned the ring so he could view a rock through it and, uttering the worlds "ikta orga ram tak!" sent a flash of lightning searing through the air into the rock, shattered it with a thunderous boom into hundreds of pieces. The sound zig zagged through the valley and dissipated, leaving an empty silence through which Argana fixated on the smoldering residue of his destructive magic. He had never done anything like that before, and with that realization came the even more shocking knowledge that he was standing knee deep in the stream. Looking down half-amused by the sight of his boots being bent to and fro by the water, he wondered: what will be the price of this?

III.

The sun was high in the sky when Argana finally set his eyes on Tharp. Quaint is perhaps the best word to describe the wizard's first impression of the village. His eyes scanned the meandering assortment of cozy dwellings accented by quills of smoke and the odd stone or large wooden structure breaking the patchwork pattern of thatched roofs. The sound of a distant stream was punctuated by the odd call from workers in the fields and their wives. It was much like home really, and Argana felt safe here. But then his eyes came to rest on the Inn. It wasn't the building itself that spooked him. Indeed, the sight of the whitewashed planks and shutters was as comforting to him as the thought of a clean bed and the hot meal promised by the smells teasing his nose. But something else awaited him inside the Inn. Maybe not today, maybe not even this week -- but eventually Argana would meet the man described to him only as "The Orc."

But probably not now, he thought as he approached the door, a cedar affair with a deep amber finish, accented with floral designs of wrought iron. Like everything at The Friendly Finch, even the door beckoned the weary traveler inside. The good spirit of the place, the smiling and drunken bird looking down at him from the establishment's sign, all of this gave him the impetus to take hold of the the door's iron ring and pull. Nah, that orc couldn't be in here NOW. It was the middle of the day, by (god's name here)!

The door, so light in appearance, felt heavy with the weight of destiny as the wizard heaved it open. A gentle mix of scattered conversations met Argana's ears. There weren't many people in the place. It looked to be a scant mix of merchants and their guards, and a few laborers enjoying a pie and a brew. The young wizard felt his body relax and . . . wait! . . . that man at the bar. He's no guard, not with that dirty garb, that crude bow! Argana made to remove himself from the door frame, to take a walk about town and clear his head and psyche himself into this most difficult meeting. It's OK, he has no idea what I look like, thought the wizard. At that moment a woman darted into his view, a young barmaid with golden hair. The blur of white ruffles and flowing black slowed to wave Argana inside with a friendly smile. There was no turning back now.

Argana entered the inn's common room, trading the harsh yellow of the midday sun for deep orange. Slowly the wizard walked past the barmaid, with whom he exchanged a few pleasantries, and made his way to the bar. Not the place he really wanted to go of course, but where else would a lone figure with a fairly destitute appearance go? Of course Argana had good reasons for fashioning his look to appear as a common traveler, but at this moment he wished he could throw off the ragged cloak and play the role suggested by what lay underneath. But this would not have been prudent. Forced to act by an innocent gesture and his own contrived appearance, Argana made for the bar with all the nonchalant conviction he could muster.

"Plain ale, please" Argana wasn't much of a drinker really, at least not any more. But he needed something to hold in his hand, something to break the awkward moments he anticipated. And frankly, he needed some quick courage. "That'll be two dinars, friend" The wizard reached into the pouch hanging off his belt and produced the coins. He placed them into the palm of his bartender, a portly man of middle age with piercing eyes. Argana felt the man's gaze revealed a knowledge of the wizard's entire life story. But one must suppose that makes for a good bartender. Still, Argana entertained thoughts of late nights seeking guidance from the man. If only he could just come out and ask him: is this guy sitting next to me the one?