On the night Torian Ismyr, second of his name, was born, it is said that the wind stood still. It was as if the very world was waiting, breath bated and eyes wide open. It was, of course, not watching the too-small, ruddy cheeked babe that giggled in his parents' arms, but something of far more import. Deep in the heart of the wild places, animals turned their heads and flowers retreated into their buds, and a darkness that had long lain dormant begun to stir. 

Torian, by all accounts, was a normal child. That is to say, he had the same number of quirks and oddities as any other youth, as all children are as strange and wonderful as one another. He was mild tempered, but stubborn. Kind, but intensely competitive. He was naturally gifted, if lazy, when it came to academic studies, but much preferred exploring the woods near his home than memorizing histories. The last fact specifically irked his parents to no end, as they had saved every penny they could to afford him an education in the hopes of him one day being able to study in one of the famed universities that dotted throughout 'Insert setting appropriate large city here'. Despite their irritation, they never once were disappointed in his lack of interest. They were good people, and they understood that their dreams for their son were not in alignment with his own. It helped that Torian's sister was far more interested in scholarly pursuits than he was, so their parents simply transferred their aspirations onto their younger child. Elowyn was three years his junior, and their relationship was never particularly close, but they got on well enough.  They were not far from the City. In fact if you walked up the tallest hill within an hours hike from where he was born, you could just about see the glinting of the lights on the horizon. Torian spent many a sunset at the top of the hill gazing at the lights, wondering what marvels might lie inside its walls.

On the night of his twelfth birthday, a traveler visited his small village. It was odd, since most travelers they saw were merchants, and the time of year was wrong for barter. It was doubly odd, since the traveler had come from the wrong direction, meaning his path would've led directly through the wild forests, where no wanderer dare step foot for fear of what might lie there. It was odd a dozen times over, as the traveler was no human, nor was he an elf or halfling, or any other common denizen of the realm - it was a dragonborn, with scales as green as the grass in spring. That night, the whole town was abuzz with the word of the foreigner, and all tried to catch a glimpse of him as he went about his business. Torian managed to watch as he bought dried fruit from Legi's stall. She looked vaguely shocked that the elf ate the same sort of fare that any of them would, but Torian knew that to be foolish. He'd never seen a Wyrm-kin before, but he'd read enough to know that their cultures were not as dissimilar as one might think. The traveler eschewed a room at the inn, to all of its patron's dismay, instead opting to camp out in the cool night air. Toran's house was not too far from the campsite he chose, and though he knew it was rude, his curiosity overwhelmed his sense of decorum, so he snuck out to get another look at the strange wanderer. Instead of catching the elf sleeping as he expected, Torian snuck up to find him holding a naked blade that glinted in the light of the small campfire. He watched, enthralled, as the Dragonborn made simple, slow cuts with the sword, more like a dance than proper fighting. Torian knew what fighting looked like, he saw Legi's husband and his cousin wrestle a few months earlier. It was quick and brutal, not slow and...beautiful. The Dragonborn moved perfectly, never taking two steps where one would've sufficed, never moving too slowly or too fast. Torian silently found a reasonably straight branch, and attempted to follow along. It surprised him that within a quarter of an hour his arms were shaking and his body slick with sweat. He could lift lumber comfortably for hours, but the dance-like bladeforms forced him to use muscles he didn't even know that he had. Eventually the swordsman chuckled, and turned to face the darkness of the woods where Torian stood. He beckoned the young half-elf over with a hand, and Torian hesitantly approached. The swordsman asked him a few questions about his life, and Torian answered simply and honestly. The swordsman then asked him a few questions about the City, which Torian answered as best he could. Finally the swordsman told him that he would be staying in the village for three days, and that if he came back the night after, he would teach him to move so that he didn't look like a cave troll dancing with a cactus. Torian came back the next night, and the night after that, and again on the third night. On the fourth night, they left the town together.

Torian travelled with the swordsmaster for four years. During that time, he learned very little about the Dragonborn, as the man had perfected the skill of speaking while saying nothing at all. That being said, he did manage to piece one or two things together. Firstly, the swordsmaster always seemed to know in what direction he wanted to travel. He never consulted a map, but never once got lost, even if his routes were winding and irrational. Secondly, he never once drew his blade with the intent to fight another with it. Even when they were attacked by brigands, he incapacitated them using only his bare hands, not once even touching the hilt of his sword. Finally, he was searching for something. What it was, Torian knew not, but it was undeniable. There was a strange intensity to his gaze when he looked at you, as if he was seeing something more than you were. As they traveled, the swordsmaster spoke and Torian listened. He spoke of small things, like the movement of leaves in the wind, but somehow it seemed to Torian that the small things really meant big things, even if he didn't understand them. It was on the night of his sixteenth birthday, as they were nearing 'Insert another thematically appropriate city here', when the swordsmaster announced that they would be parting ways. Torian tried to persuade him not to leave, but the dragonborn was adamant. He said that he planned to cross the sea, though he did not say how, and that he had taught Torian everything that he needed to know. Torian insisted that he still hadn't perfected the dwarven stone-stances and a handful of the northern blade flourishes, but the master only smiled and replied that he was never teaching him the sword, he was teaching him through the sword. He left before Torian awoke the following morning, and Torian never saw the man again.

Feeling lost, Torian slowly continued his heading. He found that without the swordmaster there to guide him, he had no idea which heading to take, every direction he tried feeling wrong. Eventually he found himself on the road towards 'insert first city here', and the loss of his mentor started to fade. For all his travels, he'd never seen the heart of his homeland. If he could find meaning anywhere, he'd find it there. He made a surprisingly fast pace after he decided where he was going, and doubly so after he realized that his own home town wouldn't be too far out of his way. What would they thing of him after all these years, carrying a sword and wearing a duelist's leathers? Would they still be hurt that he left without saying farewell?  Even with that worry lingering in the back of his mind, his heart was light as he made his way home. It was as he got close when everything suddenly started to feel wrong. Nothing was overtly off, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the day should've been full of promise, but something felt wrong to him nonetheless. He breathed a sigh of relief when his village finally came into view, but the relief was short lived. Less than ten minutes later, Torian stood in the center of the square, his blood pounding in his ears, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The village was empty. Not a soul remained. The villagers hadn't moved away, there were plates left on tables still laden with food and the livestock were all still in their pens. There were no signs of a struggle, no notes for ransom. It was as if the entire population of the village had simply ceased to exist, and in their place whatever had taken them left only one thing - scratched into the center of the square, deep into the cobblestones, was a marking about five feet across. Torian stared at it for hours, praying that he was simply having a bad dream, and soon he would wake and find the warm embrace of his parents.

He awoke the next morning, lying on the cobbles. He'd fallen asleep where he stood, exhaustion and panic from the rush of adrenaline finally catching up to him. He looked around again, despite knowing in his heart that he would find nothing changed from the day before. He steeled himself, and swore right then and there that he wouldn't leave his family to their fate. He would find whatever that had taken them, or he would die trying...