This is draft 1 of the Path of the Sorcerer. It is very rough around the edges, especially at the start. Should you wish to still read it, be warned. Here be dragons of the unskilled variety.

If you wish to rate the story or give it a review of any sort, do so on the basis of draft 2, for good or bad.

Draft 2 reflects the most canonical and “main” version of the story. I leave draft uno here as a means to catalogue my work as a writer and see how much I’ve changed and evolved or even devolved.

The lone Exorcist tracked his prey through the cold forest. The sun was setting, and his advantage would soon be lost along with the dying radiance. Amber light of the fading day bounced off the snow. The once white forest was embraced by warm dregs of firelight, contrasting with the cold, sharp air.

The Exorcist shot his quarry with a meteorite-silver laced bolt, weakening its magic. His prey scrambled from him, scared and weak. Both hunter and prey ran through the otherwise peaceful forest as light snow began to fall.

His prey tripped on a thick root and looked back. It caught a glimpse of the bearded man, his coat billowing in the slight wind, as he shot another bolt.

The sound of the string hitting metal resounded in the ghost-quiet forest.

Twang.

Fwoosh.

His prey’s pale humanoid body fell limp, as black blood seeped into the snow. The Exorcist took out a rune-etched stone from his pockets. He imbued it with his power, connecting his mind to the living rock. The runes glowed white as a mist of the same color emanated from it. A circle of interlocking runes appeared a hand width away from the stone, parallel to its source. The ring of runes spun as the handle of a sword was pushed out from the tear between worlds. First came pommel, then grip, then hilt, and finally the blade itself.

As the sword, a hand-and-a-half affair, was unsheathed from the thin air, time seemed to still to his prey. It absorbed every detail to get an edge to survive. The sensory overload caused the almost instantaneous magic to appear slow.

Cold terror gripped the insides of the Exorcist's profane prey as its death inched closer.

The Exorcist fully unsheathed the blade in a wide arc, not wasting even a mere moment. Cruel, cold, and calculating as the silver in his hands. But his prey was fast. Faster than the would-be executioner.

It contorted in a way impossible for the human form it imitated. Its sinewy limbs and torso twisting as if it had no bone to begin with.

It bolted, running on all fours like a rabid dog.

The last dredges of amber sunlight died as did the Exorcist’s advantage.

The light faded away at the end of the day, as the residents of Arvenpyre closed their shops.

Arvenpyre was a city etched into the White Cliffs. Towers and houses made of white stone jutted outwards, and tunnels and caverns permeated the cliffside that overlooked the sea. A semicircle dam protected the boats against the angry waves.

The nobility and high society were housed atop the cliffs, while the poor scurried below, between the tunnels and rocks. The tunnels were as full of life as above. Where the dwellings above made up a town, below was a city.

A boy ran through the rocky passageways from thieves looking to steal his food—a hearty loaf of weeks-old bread, bone-dry jerky, and an assortment of other “foods”. Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly his, the fleeing boy stole it.

The two that chased after the thief were also boys. A runt, small and quick with a big head, and a tall, skinny kid with a face only the Blind Mother could love. Scratch that, not even she could love that.

The fleeing thief had a lean frame forged by malnutrition. He had sunken cheeks, skinny arms, and a protruding ribcage. But that didn’t stop him from being as fast as a thief. It was a fitting description of his current situation. He carried a small torch made from driftwood, old rags, and rendered rat fat. It was a beacon, leading his prey to right where he wanted them. He named his invention the “rat stick.”

The tunnels were damp and cold, yet the overall temperature was mild. Warm even, when compared to the bone-chilling winds above ground.

The thief ran with all his might. He may have been easy to injure, being skin and bones and all, but he was fast. One could not hurt what they couldn't catch. He ran from tunnel to tunnel, knowing them like veins on the back of his hand. Not for nothing was he called a tunneler.

The thief could’ve easily lost them by running even faster, but he had something else in mind. He kept just enough distance so they wouldn’t lose his trail.

He turned the corner into a dead-end—a tall tunnel, with darkness covering its ceiling. He made sure to drop the torch at the entrance of the dead-end, leaving the rest of the tunnel dark.

The two boys running after the thief turned the corner. They were huffing and puffing but were otherwise content with finally catching the little rat.

“Ha!” said the ugly-faced boy, “We gotcha, you fucking mouse!”

“The dumbass ran into a dead-end,” said the runt, “Fitting name, isn’t it?”

“Huh. It worked?” Thought the thieving puppeteer that led his prey to the dead-end. Well, guess there’s only one thing left to do.

“Lisa! Bert!” the thief yelled, “Now!”

Two figures jumped out from shadows just above the sides of the tunnel. They were positioned right behind the two boys whose food was generously “donated.” The lithe figure landed almost without a sound and the brawny one with a thud.

The lithe ambusher dodged and slipped through them, striking in vulnerable and soft places. The brawny one was more straightforward. The sheer power of the punches outweighed the lack of finesse.

The charitable boys ended bloody and bruised.

“You’ll regret messing with us!” yelled the donkey-faced boy.

The two boys scurried off, tails between their metaphorical legs. I swear that ugly-faced kid looks like a donkey.

“Bert, that was damn impressive!” said the thief, “You were like a ram! You just pummeled them!”

“Thanks, Eiden!” Said Bert, the brawny one. “You got here faster than I thought you would. It actually worked.”

“I know, right?” said Eiden, “I started doubting the plan when I got to the dead-end.”

“I know, I know,” Said the lithe girl, Lisa, in a sarcastic tone. “If not for me and my plan, we wouldn’t have food on the table tonight.”

“We don’t even have a table.” Said Bert.

Lisa proceeded to whack him upside the head.

“Of course, we don’t have a table!” Said Lisa, “It was a godsdamned expression!”

“Ouch! You didn’t have to wallop me! I didn’t get your education, little miss merchant’s daughter!”

As soon as Bert yelled the words, he regretted them. Lisa’s face went through a multitude of emotions. Not being able to handle the seconds of awkward silence, Eiden spoke up.

“Let’s go eat, guys. We have food thanks to Bert’s strength and Lisa’s wits. And of course, my dashing looks.”

The trio erupted into laughter as Eiden held a look of mock hurt.

The trio, Eiden the quick-footed, Lisa the clever, and Bert the giant, were back to their secluded section of the tunnels. An abandoned part no one cared about, a cave-in made it almost impossible to go through. But to half-starving homeless children, it was precious. They found it when there was only Eiden and Bert. Bert did the heavy lifting to clear most of the rocks, and they never lit lights close to the entrance. They also barricaded it with wooden planks that served as a door. Well, more like a moveable piece of wood with no actual hinges, but it was their door nonetheless. The main tunnel branched out with three small ones that served as the trio’s respective rooms. The main tunnel continued outside, which meant that they could scavenge things from the wilderness, but they had to be careful with tracks. They didn’t want anyone else barging in there...

The trio ate their food with glee and abandon. The hunger never actually faded, and the trio had long since forgotten what it is to be full. But, they had each other, and that was enough. Until stomachs growled again, they would be content.

Throughout the “feast,” Eiden had been nervous.

Come on. This is like what, the hundredth time you’ve chickened out? Well then again, I don’t know how to count to a hundred, and much less even know how much it is. Sounds fancy though, like a noble’s word.

“Hey Lisa, can I talk with you?” Eiden’s voice didn’t waver or stutter, but his darting eyes betrayed his nervousness.

“Sure,” said Lisa. “As long as my chicken doesn’t get cold,” It was, in fact, not chicken. They never called what it was by its real name. Rat was not appetizing, but no one could really tell what was what in a thick stew. They all just hoped they got more jerky and less "chicken" in their individual bowls made of seashells.

Bert gave Eiden a thumbs up and a mischievous smile.

Eiden took Lisa to a more quiet part of the “house” to talk.

“I don’t really know how to say this, but... “ Eiden paused for a moment. He controlled his breathing and looked into Lisa’s eyes.

“Will you mar-”

“No”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

Lisa giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” Lisa said, “I like you to Eiden, but right now, we can’t be thinking about that kind of thing.” Lisa sighed. “How would we feed our kids? As much as I love the 'chicken', I can’t just put another kid into our wretched circumstances.”

Lisa had been etching closer and closer throughout her whole monologue, and she was only an arm’s length away from Eiden.

Each step she took got her closer and closer. She stepped up onto her toes and kissed Eiden. The kiss itself lasted only a moment, but sent a shiver down her spine and left Eiden speechless.

“Huh?” Said Eiden.

“Huh?” Yelled Lisa, “What do you mean, ‘Huh’?”

“Uhh, I… Well, you see…”

Lisa recomposed herself and let out a sigh.

“You lovable idiot,” Said Lisa in a soft, caring tone. “Sorry, I caught you off-guard. Ask me again when our house isn’t made of white marble and instead with it.”

“Only if the chicken is actual chicken.” Said Eiden with a grin, his cheeks a bright scarlet.

“That godsdamned exorcist,” Thought the man turned prey. If it weren’t for him, I would’ve been fed, happy, and content. It’s his fault that there’ll be a slaughter.

The wounded prey laughed—a throaty sound emanated from the one that understood that the roles of hunter and prey were reversed. The night stalker became the stalked, his magical prowess no more than a mere hindrance to the experienced exorcist.

The Exorcist’s prey wandered the night in search of cattle, following the heartlight. His kind were so enamored with blood and all things red that it bled into their vocabulary. Heart-light was light emitted by living things, and much more. The night sky, full of stars, shifted into a black void as the hunted one changed his sight. The forest became a multitude of greys. Anything that had heat would now be clear as day to his beady, black eyes.

The forest cleared, becoming less dense. Giant oaks gave way to sparse shrubbery and white stone. He knew exactly where the closest city was. Dark, narrow, and so many people nobody cared about... Except me. I care a lot about them.

His kind had intimate knowledge of navigation; they were a wandering people, forced to run when their true natures became revealed. He followed one sliver of the world's guardian forces, one that protected it from the harmful sun. Poetic, his kind have always hated the ball of fire. And now, the force of nature that protected the whole world from the sun was also guiding him. It was a field of invisible pressure that bent the chaotic energy in metals. That field was harnessed by many a sailor not to be lost amid the vast, empty ocean. Compasses pointed North, without ever feeling that force. Feeling that energy that permeated so much yet only the blessed and the cursed could see. It was always so comforting.

The man turned prey had changed so much since the Transference.

Maybe I would’ve been better off if I didn’t give in to the dreams? He let out a half grunt, half-laugh. Perhaps so, but… I’ve had so much fun. It would be a shame to stop so early when a little fun is just around the corner. Why not just a little, tiny more bit of fun, for old time’s sake?

The man stumbled his way through the last patch of forest, ending on top of a hill that looked out into the sea meeting the white cliffs. He shifted his sight, unattuning himself from the blood and heat, returning to the normal sight of man.

The cliff was lit with lights. Towers of opulence jutted out from the upper regions of the highlands, but other parts caught his attention. The dark, damp, tunnels made of marble. Their white canvas would be soon painted with black scarlet under the moonlight.

Arvenpyre, I’m back home.