Location: Montaven and beyond
Timeline: Sixth Age, 46th Year, Autumn
At last Emcorae was finally leaving the stage of his pitiful little town and venturing out into the wider world. His family thought they were sending him away for his protection, never realizing they were simply giving him to the gods to play with.
A fortnight later, the weeping began. I swear, they are a tiresome lot, these mortals. There was Beckali, the heart-broken mother, her memories still a fresh wound. There was Alboris, the drunkard father, and Alfranco, the senile grandfather, both of them reeking of cheap ale and self-pity. There was Paulina, the pious grandmother, who had the hardest time of all. And then there was Emcorae’s sister Teree and that fat little runt of a pup Chich. They all stood there, a pitiful little tableau of sorrow, watching as Emcorae rode away from the home he might never truly see again.
He was in the company of a mysterious little elf named El-Janus. Alfranco, had spoken of him frequently in his drunken tales, calling him a legendary azora warrior. The old fool even thought this tiny elf’s reputation and promise to protect the boy would be enough to quell the Azop’s fears. It was not, of course. Their fear was as thick as the Monthaven mud. But in the end, they had no choice. The die had been cast, the events set in motion, and they, the simple mortals, could do nothing to stop it. They simply watched him go, weeping and waving their tear-soaked handkerchiefs. El-Janus promised them five summers before they would meet again – and then they were off.
Oh, the weeks leading up to this moment were a comedy of errors. The family debated endlessly, looking for a way to keep Emcorae with them. It was his grandmother, Pallina, who finally gave in. She had been the most vocal opponent of the boy’s departure, a stubborn old woman who, in her heart, blamed her husband Alfranco for all of this. In her mind, the boy was paying for Alfranco’s “sins” from a war that ended eons ago. And she would forever condemn him for it.
It was glorious.
But it was Pastor Kastelli, the ever-pious fraud, who sealed the deal. When the clergyman learned of Emcorae’s potential departure, he saw an opportunity. He declared it a “gift from Mannah,” a sign from their impotent little godling that must be accepted. He was taking advantage of the situation, of course, getting rid of the town’s pariah and rebuilding the psyche of his pathetic flock all in one go. His words had the desired effect. The heart-broken Pallina was finally convinced. “We can’t fight Yahway’s will,” she had said, and the rest of the family had no choice but to acquiesce.
So Emcorae rode away. The sorrowful parting words had been spoken, the tears had been shed, and the family watched, wondering what the future held for the young boy.
But there was another figure watching the scene, one who did not participate in the sentimental theater of the sad parting. From the seclusion of the nearby woods, the goddess Alyssa held a far different point of view. For although I had no idea she’d ever be so bold, the bitch had gone behind my back and dared to use my baals for her own designs. How she got Lucifer to agree I’ll never know, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d done it. For Alyssa had been the one to send the gargoyle to Emcorae in the first place, forcing him into this destiny of her choosing.
Smiling at what she witnessed she thought, It comes together as I have planned.
The goddess then flitted among the trees as she watched El-Janus lead the boy away, giddy with delight. Once she was certain the pair were out of sight from the Azops’ homestead, she blew a kiss on the wind towards the boy and then disappeared – satisfied with herself for a job well done.
Six days later, as the second month of the fall season was coming to a close, Emcorae was still faring south with his new teacher. The journey, predictably, had been a quiet one. Long days in the saddle, with the elf-lord’s talk limited to short, dry responses to the boy’s incessant questions. El-Janus, with his aged olive skin, bald scalp, and lack of armor, was hardly the image of a world-class warrior, but Emcorae had quickly learned to respect him. The elf had a presence, a “lifeforce” that seemed to encircle him. He was, according to Alfranco a master, an Azora Mysstro – the very highest of their rank. Even the naive Emcorae could see that the strange elf had wisdom in his eyes as vast as the sky.
But the boy was homesick. In spite of this ‘great’ warrior at this side, Emcorae soon began to fear. He wondered if another gargoyle might be chasing him. And he began to doubt that little El-Janus could protect them. How very… human.
And then came the fateful night in the village of Sylvania – a bordertown that sat at the convergence of the Ontra Road with the great Easton-Weston Passage. After so many days of sleeping in the woods, Emcorae was eager to bunk in a bed again – sadly for him, that was not the case, as El-Janus only stopped in the town long enough to purchase some oats for the horses and a few supplies for the road, and the the pair made their way out of town shortly after that.
When Emcorae asked why they couldn’t just stay this night in town, the elf-warrior replied with a question of his own, “The sun has just path its zenith and the moon shows the promise of fullness tonight, do you not want to make as much progress as you can towards your goal today?”
Mouth agape, Emcorae didn’t reply – muttering to himself about the benefits of sleeping-in and silliness of waking up before dawn, and the like. To say he wasn’t thrilled with the schedule his new master had placed him on, would be an understatement. yet if that would have been the worst experience of this short trip to Arbola Forest, Emcorae would have been much the happier, albeit none the wiser.
Unfortunately for him, this night would bear witness to an event that would shake the core of the twelve year-old boy.
“C’mon, sir, let me hold a real sword when we practice tonight instead of the wooden one again,” Emcorae whined. A truly grating sound, that. The elf-lord, patiently seated by the campfire, had only two things to say to the boy: “One: do not whine in my presence – it does not become an Azora-in-training. And two: Do not question the methods I use to teach you, Emcorae Azop. For they have been proven true by thousands of years of training. Not even I, a Mysstro, dare question The Way.”
El-Janus was calmly seated before the campfire, appearing to be comfortable as always, dressed in his simple traveling clothes: loose cotton pantaloons and a linen waist-length tunic, both brown, with a green obi-sash, and short leather boots. El-Janus was indeed much like his grandfather Alfranco had described – at a mere five feet tall, he was shorter than the average elf, and with his aged olive skin, bald scalp, and lack of any armor, the elf’s appearance did not bring to mind the image of a world-class warrior. Yet, Emcorae had learned straight away that any misconceptions about respect for El-Janus would likely be a mistake – for, although the Amorosi had not drawn his weapons, his dual rapiletti blades were ever visible in their scabbards at his hip, and the boy rightly guessed that the elf could flash his steal at a moment’s notice.
Additionally, beyond the sight of the warrior’s weapons, Emcorae surmised something else: the Azora mysstro that was El-Janus had a presence about him, a kind of “lifeforce” that seemed to encircle him, and the wisdom that was overtly evident in his midnight blue eyes was as vast as the sky itself. Thus, the boy was both intimidated and awed by his new teacher and frequently he found himself apologizing.
“I’m sorry, master. I did not mean to question your teaching. But please, sir, tell me more about The Way – the way to where?”
“The Way of the Azora,” the elf smiled, his demeanor softening. “It is the path that we all must tread if we want to reach the enlightenment of understanding what it means to be a noble warrior.”
“How long did it take you to complete it?”
“I am still finding my way.”
“What?” The boy gasped. “But my granddad said that you’re seen more than 400 seasons and he said you were a master! Isn’t that true? I mean, c’mon, there ain’t no way I could live that long, so how can I become an Azora? Why am I even going down there then, if I have no chance?”
After patiently waiting for the boy to question himself out, El-Janus responded, “It is true that I have witnessed the dawning of 473 spring times. It is also true to say that I was once a Pupil like you. But in time, with much training, did I progress, and thus I learned much as a Novitiate. Yet, that was not the end for me, instead I desired to continue walking, and I did find success too as a Cavalier. And now I am fortunate enough that Pan and Alyssa have blessed me with the opportunity to serve as Mysstro.”
“But,” interrupted Em, wanting to know more about his own situation, “how long will it take me to move to the next level? To become a Novice?”
“Most Pupils develop the basic skills necessary to confidently move on to the next stage of their lives as a Novitiate within a decade or three.”
Emcorae gushed for a flood of despair, yet the elf held up a hand. “Listen, my son, before you speak. You can learn much that way. No warrior ever gets to the end of this training. There is no End, but for the end of your days. None can ever know all the answers. For that knowledge is left for the gods alone. And even then, only a few may know The Truth – nay, perhaps only El-Aba, the Father, may know that much. But for you, for me, and others like us, we must pray that we ever have the ability to walk along the path, for only then, can we learn more about The Way.”
“But, how will I ever know when I am even a warrior?” lamented the youth. “Are you saying I will be ‘in training’ for all of my life?”
“Ah, Emcorae, your ‘training’ has only just begun and you would be wise to hope that it lasts a long, long time. For, understand that we practice in order to ingrain these basic repetitive maneuvers into the very fabric of our being. We make these moves into unconscious habits, reproducible without thought or mind, but instead just action or reaction as needed. By doing so, we are giving ourselves a good foundation from which to build upon. A foundation is a beginning, and when you begin with a solid foundation, you improve your chances of ending with a desirable result. Thus, your practice training is the heart of your real life success.”
“But when will I ever use my skills in real life?” Emcorae wondered, a bit afraid at what his teacher might answer.
Pray, young one, that you are not forced to use even the small skills you have learned so far anytime soon.” Then smiling, El-Janus added calmly, “One day you will understand this simple lesson. But for now, I say to you in the words of The Society of Dead Poets, ‘Learn to understand your place in the grand scheme of things; That the wonderful play may go on and you may contribute a verse.’ What will your verse be, Emcorae Azop? Think on that this night as we continue our lesson with the sword – yes, the wooden sword.”
This pitiful elf, he preaches about The Way, but he has no idea where it truly leads. He thinks he is training a warrior. He is simply guiding a pawn to his true purpose. The boy was learning, but he was learning all the wrong things. He thought this is about becoming a warrior. He didn’t know this was about becoming my weapon. Yet his training had begun, but it wasn’t going to lead him where he wanted to go.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 