“Edge enough to shave a Bugbear” -a tale of the Old Crow

The mind did not direct the hands. It had no need. Each birch arrow shaft was smoothed and shaped with precisely the same series of motions as the last, each of the loose black feathers plucked from his neck was split and glued with the same efficiency.

The mind did not direct the hands. It had no need. So the mind was free to coil on itself and chew.

And chew.

The mind was not capable of creative thought. It could not dream, or imagine. It recorded. It reacted. It copied.

Never created. Never invented.

The mind could not do these things.

But the Seed could.

It sat there in the back of the mind, a coiling and slithering wet presence. The mind was aware of it, but could not affect it, could only observe in fear as the Seed grew with each passing season.

IT could dream.

IT could create.

IT had hungers and desires that the mind could not comprehend or resist.

And the Seed was slowly, inevitably, changing the Mind into something......more.

Strange thoughts would sometimes surface in the mind. “What is it changing me into?”

“Where did it come from?”

...:

...

...

“Can I fight this?”

—————————————

The Bugbears were silent as they moved through the heavy brush below the ancient trees. Despite their large frames and bulk, their steps were soft and careful, their movements trained and wary. Three of them: one leading the group with hands holding a massive crossbow and eyes wary and alert, two others behind holding the limp form of their captive.

The Wood Elf they carried had seen better days. He was bound and gagged, his fine armor and weapons having been stripped and bundled up by his captors as prizes, he was nude save for his small clothes and a simple leather cord about his neck.

His captors had no way to know this, being blind to magic, but the tiny wooden harp charm on that cord shone with a brilliant call to any who knew what to look for.

Like the eyes of the raggedy old crow in the trees above them.

—————————————

He moved without a sound. These Bugbears were naturally stealthy, like all their kind, but Crookshaft didn’t need the Seed’s magical sight to track them for the past three days.

Those Who Harp had called,

And Crookshaft had answered.

He dropped from the tree with even less sound than his quarry, leaf litter and threads of his own shadow spinning and merging into his hands as he fell.

The detritus and inky dark formed his bow in his grip, and three freshly crafted arrows awaited his grasp.

The mind did not direct the hands. It had no need.

The first two arrows slew the Bugbears that carried the Harper, no sound was made as gorgon-scale arrowheads shattered skulls.

The third arrow smashed the heavy crossbow from the leader’s grip, sending him whirling about in shock and watching with gaping jaws as his companions fell dead.

Crookshaft took a single stride, over the gagged but suddenly hopeful form of the Harper prisoner. He let his longbow fade away into a swirl of dead leaves in the forest breeze.

In Goblin he mocked the remaining foe.

”Should have taken the game trail to the south. Most of your tribe knows better than to cross Neverwinter’s treeline.”

The Bugbear did not answer in kind, merely swore at the small figure before him and drew

his Glaive to charge.

Crookshaft met the charge with a blur of speed, but before he came within range of the Bugbear’s terrible weapon and overlong arms, the Kenku dissolved into a swirl of mist and black feathers, momentarily confounding his foe.

With a grunt of shock and a roar of pain, the Bugbear lurched forward.

The Harper on the forest floor looked on with wide eyes as a sword crafted of shadow and feathers and leaves burst from the Bugbear’s sternum, before being wrenched free to cleanly decapitate the falling creature.

Crookshaft cracked his long, pitted black beak and a little aria of harp strings and woodwinds filled the forest as he let his sword dissolve away. He moved to reclaim the Harper’s belongings before untying the man. The Elf murmured thanks through broken teeth and cracked, bruised lips before Crookshaft hushed him in a motherly Halfling’s voice, merriment twinkling around the Kenku’s black eyes.

He reached deep within, past the Seed, to the quiet piece of the Forest his master had left in him so long ago.

The mind did not direct the hands. It had no need. The gentle woodland magic helped to cleanse and heal the Elf before him, and as he put the trauma of the broken Harper’s body right, he felt the Seed squirm within him, uncomfortable and disapproving of the altruism.

He managed to hold in his confusion at the sensation....

but felt another of those strange, unnatural thoughts spin its way across the Mind.....

“This. This it cannot stand....

When I act as they did....the Guardians....

“This is how I fight.”

Crookshaft led the Harper back through the forest. He would take him back to his friends.

And maybe. Maybe Those Who Harp would have something else they needed an old crow to help with.....

The mind did not direct the heart.

It had no need.

Some time Later

Kettle Redfingers watched her boy as he leaned over the maps in the smoky tent. She puffed away at her pipe, eyes still sharp despite her years, smiling as she watched his earnest gestures. He listened intently as the Harpers explained their plans to face the Horde, and shared his thoughts in a variety of voices, stitching together borrowed words in a fashion no other of his race could.

Her smile widened as he slipped into her sister’s voice once or twice. Despite his may changes , he was still their boy.

The meeting adjourned, with grim looks and handshakes, a solid plan having been formed. The mother of the Elf her boy had brought back embraced him, briefly, and the rest of her House bowed deeply. So the rescued Harper had been an Elven noble, Kettle mused. Her boy was full of surprises.

He approached her, then, shrugging self consciously as she reached out to smooth the graying feathers around his beak. Her heart ached a bit. He was nearing sixty years....old for his race. Despite the fact that she was older than most Halflings lived, she feared her boy might die before her. Her face betrayed nothing, as her fingers flickered into the silent speech.

”You are committed to this path then, fledgling?”

He answered her with the same clever motions of the hands, before taking hers in his and pressing them to his beak in his approximation of a kiss.

”Yes, mother. When the Lay of the Grey Guardians was sung in Baldur’s Gate last week, I knew I never should have left them. The Harpers follow a bright path as well. This is my chance to atone.”

She smiled again, sad, but proud. She had Harped herself, once upon a time, hunting pirates and other threats along the Sword Coast. She was already old when she and Gretel had adopted a young Kenku ranger when his master had been killed. They had had many long years together, and despite whatever had changed him during his torment in Mistshore, she still loved her boy. The only child she had ever had.

”Well. Time to see if you can finally outshoot me, my love. Crookshaft Redfingers, welcome to the Harpers.”

The Sign of the Crow

Crookshaft eyed the group with interest as he sat in a tree above their little campfire. None of them had noticed him, yet, but that was to be expected. In the shadows, he was invisible to both normal vision and the dark sight of certain races, while his own vision was clearer and sharper than most.

About the little fire sat his “team”, Harper agents chosen and sent to him for his mission.

He knew their names and some of their skill sets, and he amused himself by spying on them as they interacted with one another.

The largest figure among the group was a strange sight. A Goliath woman, with grayish skin and short-cropped black hair. Elaborate black tattoos in the rune language of the Giants crawled across her sharp-featured face, and her powerful build was wrapped in dark-hued leathers. He expected a woman of her size and muscles to carry a maul or greatsword, but she seemed to only be armed with a vast array of daggers. She was Fitzelyn Icewrought. The Fitz, as she was called.

Drowsing with a white-leather spellbook at Fitz’s side was Avid Arron, a light-haired human man of middle years. He was dressed similarly to his companion, in dark leather, and had a bored expression on a polished, handsome face. By all accounts, he was a former assassin and former Watch-Wizard of Waterdeep. Which came first is the mystery.

Crook got a little chill whenever he watched the third member of the group. Swordbreaker, they called her, and for something so small to have such an aura of danger was unsettling. She was a Kobold, with scales of banded grey and brown, eyes like two bright yellow sparks in the firelight. She wore no armor, and carried no weapons, but as they made their camp, Crookshaft had watched her leap from the tall grass and smash three quail from flight with only her taloned feet, almost too fast for even his eyes. Unusual for one of her race to be a Harper agent, but her dedication was plain. She had branded her own scaled throat with their symbol.

The last of the four was more familiar to Crook. The jovial old Halfling woman was regaling the others with tales of her youth. Kettle Redfingers, one of his adopted mothers. She was the most aged being he had ever known, and still one of the deadliest fighters. He was proud she would be joining him.

As the night wound on, he could see his little “squad” growing impatient.

Perfect timing. The branch was growing uncomfortable. Just for a lark, he summoned up a bit of magic from his Pact, drawing on the Seed to appear next to the fire in a swirl of black feathers.

He hopped backwards swiftly, chuckling as two daggers, a bolt of magical flame, and what appeared to be a blast of sheer force impacted the ground where he had landed.

He chose the rich, friendly voice of his old friend Torrin, but drew upon his amulet to make the words his own,

“Good to see your reflexes are all what I was promised. If you are finished being enchanted by my mother’s charms, shall we get to the plan?”

............

The Swordbreaker

Hobgoblins. Fools, all of them.

Swordbreaker waited in the darkness just beyond the light of the watch fires, patiently observing as the highly disciplined soldiers marched along their patrols.

The Harper scouts had described the force they would be facing as a Horde, but as usual, that was only some of the information.

Most of the force was Goblinkind, the militant Hobgoblins coordinating and commanding their smaller Goblin cousins and the larger and lazier Bugbears. There were a handful of Trolls and Ogres that had been bribed or enslaved to join the small army, but the section Swordbreaker was working on was ruled entirely by the Hobs.

They kept themselves separate from their kin,

disliking the disorganized nature of both other groups.

Swordbreaker slid out of the darkness at the moment she had been counting towards, when the staggered patrols crossed each other’s path and their steps marched loudly across a small wooden bridge over their defensive trench.

The marching steps covered any sound she made as she dashed between their backs in a flash, her taloned feet wrapped in soft cloth to mute the click of claw against wood as her steps carried her straight up the wooden wall beyond the trench. She clung to the sharpened stakes at the top, bright yellow eyes rapidly counting tents.

There. The Hobs dedication to military hierarchy was a weakness. Honor left no room for deception, the command tents were easily determined by anyone who had studied their ranking and symbols.

Like Swordbreaker. The Harpers had not given her the name, after all.

She moved through the tents with purpose, more silent and fluid than ever. This was the only part of her role where things could go wrong. If she was discovered before she could complete her task, the others would be endangered, even if she managed to fight her way free.

Their tasks were being carried out at the same moment, after all.

Swordbreaker paused behind the command tent, listening intently. The murmur of voices speaking the Goblin tongue discussed logistics and supply, and when she heard the sharp bark of command from one and the apologetic tones of another, she knew that she had found the right timing.

With a rush , she slid beneath the edge of the tent, taking in her targets as they reeled on her in surprise.

Three. Pity. She had been hoping for more.

The first target was an officer in the supply chain, by the look of fear in his slightly pudgy face as his sword blade exploded into shards in his hands. Her kick had broken the steel in an instant , her small frame spinning in midair to treat his skull similarly with the back of her fist.

The second Hob to face her had managed to draw his longsword and met her with a rushing pattern of attacks. She watched a moment as she circled him, and then spat at him in disgust.

Kingfisher style? A technique of flash, for military parades and festivals. She read his moves in a fraction of a heartbeat, and as the ‘Wing Descended to the Waves’, she leaped in and crushed his throat and sternum with her fists before he could turn it into ‘Spray of the Mist’.

She turned on the third then, a General by the plumes on his helm. He awaited her calmly, sword resting casually in the stance of a master of Waning Moon. She paused a moment to bow to him. No flash and pageantry from this one, this was a soldier born.

The Hob general’s eyes were stoic as he returned her bow. His voice was resigned. “You are the Swordbreaker. I saw you at the battle in the Dales, four years ago. I am....”

She cut him off, the Goblin tongue harsh and feeling dirty in her mouth, “No names, General. You are just a Sword. And you know why I am here”

He nodded. “Then let us begin”

........

As she rested in the trees minutes later, she hissed and nodded as she pressed a glowing twig to the slice along her ribs. A master of Waning Moon and Tiger Hunter , as it turned out. The best she had faced in years.

He had almost lasted two minutes.

.........

Avid for her

Arron and Fitz moved through the slowly rousing encampment in a rush, she sped by the powerful muscles of her long legs, he by the pulse of his magic to quicken his steps. Here and there a half-drunk bugbear or confused goblin stepped into their path, only to be torn to ribbons by the daggers dancing in Fitz’s hands. Arron could only grin in arousal and glee as he followed the path of carnage she wrought.

One dagger in an ice pick grip, one held laying along her forearm to ward off blades, the massive woman hammered aside her foe’s weapons and tore them apart, constantly moving, the enchanted leathers she wore warding off the blows she didn’t parry, silent and efficient with every motion. He followed in her shadow, no arrow or blade coming close to touching him, secure in the knowledge that his wife was the arrow.

He was the poison it carried.

They came to their target at last, a hollow in the earth filled with half-rotted , much chewed carcasses of people and beasts. Fitz broke aside as they neared the charnel place, and Arron skidded to a stop, his hands already rising from the pouches at his belt. A handful of heartbeats as he summoned the first of two spells he would cast, a handful of heartbeats as he watched the throng of Trolls rise slowly to their feet, eyes dull with torpor but realizing, like the rest of the camp, that something was wrong.

Phosphorus burned from his palm as the hollow was ringed by a wall of flame, the roar of the Trolls trapped within echoing their fear as they recoiled from the heat. He held it as he began his second spell, hearing the grunts and steady breathing behind him as Fitz tore apart anyone who tried to reach her husband.

He glanced over his shoulder and shuddered in glee as he caught a glimpse of her shattering a Bugbear’s forearm in one hand as her other hand threw a dagger through the eye of a goblin archer twenty feet away.

Then he shook his head and dropped the wall of flame, grinning at the scorched trolls within as the bat guano drifted into pale smoke above his palm.

“She’s really something special, huh?”

The fireball that exploded a moment later silenced any answer the confused trolls might have offered.

With a grunt, Arron was flipped over Fitz’s shoulder, and he hugged her tightly and rubbed his cheek on her back as her long strides raced them from the camp.

Her throaty voice was filled with mirth ,

“Flatterer. That was beautiful work”

Arron clambered onto her back as the shouts of the camp and their pursuers gradually fell behind.

“You do inspire me, my love.”

........

Kettle kills an Ogre. Or Six

For some reason, the encampment was in an uproar, but the group of Ogres who had been set to guard one of the riverbeds were too busy arguing over a hand of cards to be of any use.

Kettle smirked grandly as she eyed the stack of smelly coins and various rusty weapons laying beside her. The six ogres that surrounded the little flat patch of riverbank were moments away from betting their smelly breechcloths next, which Kettle would prefer they didn’t.

At first they had been angry as she handily won, but then she let them deal, and kept winning, and now they were convinced that somehow luck would turn back their way.

It wouldn’t. Kettle had been training her hands for over a century. They still had all of their wicked grace, and she could stack a deck in the blink of an eye.

And Ogres blinked slowly, especially as they enjoyed goblet after goblet of the mead she had brought them. She eyed them sidelong as she teased and joked with them, noting the progression of telltale signs as she drank frugally from her own mug.

An Ogre paused in mid-sentence to scratch at his belly in confusion.

onset of mild acid indigestion, sign of the sugars in the mead interacting with the additives

An Ogre began slurring his words, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth.

construction of blood vessels in throat, shutdown of salivary process

An Ogre clutched his head and roared, blood streaming from eyes that stared wildly for Kettle, who idly picked the coins from her “winnings” and easily dodged a slow and clumsy swipe.

now-toxic blood violently purged from brain, blood vessels around heart bursting from the pressure. Death.

Six heavy thuds. Six forms dead within seconds of each other. Kettle took a couple steps away from the firelight and worked her jaw slowly.

With a quiet, understated retch, she expelled the mead she had shared with them, a bare pint of fluid mixed with a half pint of her blood and bile.

“Why would you drink the poison with them? I do not question, I am simply curious.”

A voice from a nearby tree shook Kettle slightly. Swordbreaker had snuck up on her somehow.

Sneaky little gecko, isn’t she?

She wiped her mouth and painted on her cruelest grin.

“Aye, my lethal friend, there is no cure for Hoarnettle. And you can’t build an immunity to it, even Fiends that are weaned on poison die if they consume more than a dram.”

Kettle Redfingers opened a little empty looking sack at her belt, withdrawing from it a handful of vials similar to the one she had poisoned the cask with.

“But I managed to harvest a lifetimes worth when I last visited the Abyss. And although you can’t build immunity, I have managed to build a resistance. I know how much I can take without dying.”

The little Kobold dropped from the trees, staring at Kettle with an unreadable expression that might be respect, or perhaps simply caution.

“Hoarnettle. From the Abyss. I will have to remember that one. It looked a particularly…,vicious death.”

Kettle’s grin faded to a tight lipped smile.

“No more vicious than the deaths of the farming folk these Ogres already got hold of. I imagine I will get to use my poisons again soon.”

—————

The Mind does not direct the Blade

Two arrows streaked into the sky, trailing phosphorescent blue dust, telling the gathering Harper forces that the time to strike was now.

Crookshaft was running before the second arrow had left his bow, the enchanted longbow dissolving away into shadow and mist. For this next bit of work, he would use the Blade.

He had watched as the groundwork was laid, he knew the camp to be in disarray and knew the only chance he had was now. To put the finishing touches on this little drama he had planned.

The Harpers were coming….the command of the Horde and it’s strongest brutes were removed from the picture.

Now, Crook had only to buy enough time for the strike to hammer home and end this little play.

He reached out his hands as he ran, bizarre and unsettling glyphs racing across his mind. His fingers twisted unnaturally, the Seed helping him to shape the spell as the Deep Speech rolled from his beak.

Sickening, hideous green light blasted out amid the confused ranks of Goblinkind. Some died instantly, others cried out as their flesh was scorched and began to glow gently. Together their shattered ranks drew back closer around the central bonfire of the encampment.

And Crookshaft reached into his Shadow,

And drew forth the Blade.

The fire instantly snuffed out, as an oppressive cold filled the area. The Goblinkind all possessed Darkvision, so although unsettled, they held their ranks as their eyes adjusted to the dark.

And then they started dying.

Three at first, then six, then twelve. In the gloom they looked around and saw nothing, just trails of frost as their comrades died, blood freezing in the air even as it sprayed forth from suddenly open throats and thighs and wrists.

Crookshaft danced, the shadow beneath the leaf, as his first teacher had taught him. The Old Crow could not be seen by the dark sight. And without seeing him, they could not fight.

A falling leaf makes no sound. It lands upon you light as a baby’s kiss.

And this shadow carried the edge of winter in its hands, and before the Horde could think to do anything other than panic, the damage was done.

They were hopelessly unprepared for the force of Harpers that surrounded them and struck from every side. The rout was total and final.

Crookshaft watched the aftermath of his brutal dance from a perch halfway up an ancient spruce. His black eyes smiled merrily. Winterthorn hissed contentment in his hand, the frigid blue shortsword slowly consuming blood that had frozen along its blade. He waited until it had finished eating, and then sent his amusement to the Blade, before sheathing it once more in his own shadow. He knew the hungry little weapon hated that Crook wouldn’t speak to it.

He turned his attention to the struggling figure hanging head downwards from the branch above him. The Hobgoblin messenger had been attempting to run from the camp, no doubt back to a superior to report the events of the evening.

It hadn’t taken more than a simple spell and a swift rope to capture her. Now Crook clicked his beak and made gruesome sounds at the young Hob, slowly working her into a state of abject fear. He did not bother to speak as he seized upon the squirming Seed in his mind.

Instead he sent his thoughts hammering into her brain, cruel mirth in the flavor of his mental speech.

You will serve a purpose. You will do exactly what you intended, return to your leaders, tell them what happened tonight. The only thing you will not mention is me. And then you will go about your duties, and every day I will reach into your mind. And you will tell me everything I want to know.

She struggled against the ropes, anger and pride mixing with her fear now. Crook radiated even more amusement, and laid a single gentle hand on her bound frame.

You will not fight. You will not resist. You cannot. You will be mine until I release you, and will not even be willing or able to tell anyone what they need to know to free you. I am Crookshaft Redfingers, Seed in Winter. I am the Shadow beneath the Leaf. And You, little one. You are now my Thrall

And with a flex of the sickening glyphs wrapped around his mind, Crook reached into the helpless Hob’s thoughts….

And the Seed planted its terrible roots there.

——-

First Iteration: Ge’hirr

In the year 1494 DR, a subtle power crept out of the Anauroch desert. Ge’hirr, Gnoll mage and cleric of Yeenoghu, who operated with an entirely different style of cunning and treachery than her kin.

Intelligent enough to be considered a genius by the standards of any race, Ge’hirr wove a complicated web of treaties and intrigue, specializing in Magics of mental domination to assist her.

Her target?

The entire Hobgoblin race.

An accomplished shapeshifter and actress, Warlords were seduced by her. The Clerics of Magubliyet were tempted and the embers of their avarice stoked.

The Iron Shadows, lethal secret police, came to trust the ‘intelligence’ she fed them more than their own.

And finally, one of her favorite alter egos served as head of the Academy of Devastation, planting her hooks in every Hobgoblin mage that trained there.

Her claws dipped into every aspect of Hobgoblin society, pressuring Warbands to gather and spread out, feeding the Warlords a steady diet of paranoia and xenophobia.

Chaos would be served. Ge’hirr was it’s arbiter. And not even a handful of beings in Faerun even knew she existed……

————————-

Fitz has a plan

The little band rested in a half wrecked old cabin somewhere south of Neverwinter. A bit of work from Crookshaft and Fitz had laid boughs across the broken parts of the roof, and helped trap the warmth from the merry fire burning in the broken hearth. Kettle snoozed idly, Swordbreaker was cooking something that smelled horrid, and Arron was reading a book of Hobgoblin smut he had found somewhere.

And so Fitz , predictably, was bored.

She paced a bit, leathers barely making a sound as her long strides marked the length and breadth of the one-room cabin again and again. When the pacing wasn’t enough to still her head, the massive woman began turning handsprings in place, counting calmly to herself, followed by a few rounds of throwing her daggers at a wall.

She was aware of the old crow watching her, amused at her restlessness, and every time she felt his gaze she gritted her teeth a bit more. Creepy fucking bird.

She understood magic, hell, her husband was a wizard. She had worked alongside it for decades.

Fitz had known druids in the high mountains among her own people, she had played bodyguard for the priests with their holy magic, and given her heart to a human mage.

The Kenku’s magic was none of those powers. He could speak into your mind, probably read it too. He played with shadows and made weapons out of them. He was fucking creepy.

Damnit. No way around it.

Fitzelyn Icewrought turned to Crookshaft and folded her impressive arms across her chest. She stared down the bird with a scowl.

“So. What’s this whole thing about, anyway? Horde is dealt with, right? So why are we all still hanging around together?”

Crookshaft stood from his crouch by the wall and faced her fully. Dressed like a dandy, all silks and fine linen clothing, patterned like dappled leaves in greens and browns. like a bloody Elf, that’s how this one dresses she thought to herself.

His words crept into her head, making her shiver. He was using her own voice…..fuck.

”Horde is indeed dealt with. THIS horde. Someone set this in motion, Hobs don’t raise armies and go warring in this part of Faerun lightly. I have sent back a spy, and we are waiting for her report.”

He paused to poke the fire. The lines around his black eyes were crinkled in a merry smile.

”When I have what I need, we will have our final targets. And when they are dead, you can be rid of me , Fitzelyn. No promises that we won’t meet again, but if I can, I will leave you be.”

Fitz was strangely grateful that he was speaking in her mind, and angered that he could so easily sense her fear. She didn’t like to show weakness, ever. And she didn’t like to think of what kind of ‘spy’ he might have sent back.

“No offense intended, but I think I would be happy to go a time without seeing you again”

A small cough from the fire, where the smelly and unrecognizable creature Swordbreaker had been cooking disappeared into the Kobold’s jaws. She turned those reptile eyes to Fitz and Crook, tongue licking shreds of flesh from her tiny fangs.

“I do not feel the same, Redfingers. Call upon me any time such killing as this is to be done. It is invigorating.”

Crookshaft cracked his beak and switched to audible speech, his words borrowed from dozens of voices, stitched together in a disturbing patchwork that Fitz had never heard from a Kenku before meeting this one.

“There can be no guarantee that I will always be fighting Hobgoblins. I know your hatred runs deep, but I take my battles where they serve my purpose. People like us, we tend to wind up together for singular, common purposes. You and I have larger designs that are not always complementary, Swordbreaker.”

He resumed his seat , staring out into the night. His black eyes reflected none of his earlier amusement.

Swordbreaker was not deterred, apparently.

“It is of no matter if the enemy is not always my own utter foe. You have shown traits I approve of. And battle is a test I must always measure myself against. Call on me when you will, Redfingers. I will answer.”

A somber nod, though he didn’t look at her. Swordbreaker returned to her meal with a satisfied grunt.

Fitz tucked herself in beside her husband, draping an arm protectively around him as he tucked his book away and snuggled close.

Arron began playing with a twist of copper wire he wore about his wrist, and the two relaxed into whispered conversation that his magic kept for their ears alone.

“You don’t trust Crookshaft, my love?”

Her grip tightened slightly.

“His magic is strange to me. And he is not like other Kenku.”

Arron paused a bit, eyes flickering around behind closed eyelids. It was a sign his mind was working to string his thoughts together before he spoke, a habit that had marked the magical prodigy as slow to those who didn’t know better.

“He is a warlock. Something gives him his Magics, though what I cannot tell as of yet. He also possesses some of the nature magic that some Rangers wield. And his mannerisms are….strange. I do not think he has spent much time among his own race.”