In the opulent study of the respected mayor of Port Dusk located in the Old City district within the grounds of the enormous Leblanc Estate, stood a young man in his early twenties. He was on the shorter side, but if asked would say he was average for the height of his hometown. This young man, Sylvain, was a fisherman from the Vermilion Isles; a territory in the southwestern region of the River Kingdom or Kingdom of Man depending on one's preference. Sylvain of Careaux was standing at attention, while the Lord Mayor Leblanc shuffled papers on his desk with a calm and stoic expression chiseled on his stonelike face. Sweat dripped down Sylvain's forehead and his curly blonde hair hung loose and wild. It interfered with his ability to look the older man in the eyes- young Sylvain had decided it was time for a haircut after his current predicament ended. What the hell am I doing here? was chief amongst the more coherent and less primal of the thoughts and fears circulating through the young fisherman's mind.
Sylvain was not originally in fear of his future upon being told he was receiving escort to Port Dusk to meet with the mayor. As a member of the local militia of Careuax and a somewhat skilled spearman he was filled with dreamy expectations of a direct commission or offer to compete in the upcoming tournament. He was seen off by his friends with cheer and packed a bag with all the necessities a village boy might anticipate needing in the big city and was escorted by a contingent of men-at-arms. They left to journey east across the Isles and into Cavalier March: the Cradle of the River Kingdom. While not necessarily the handsome socialite, Sylvain was a charismatic young man who often made friends with the few travelers that made their way through his home. This is why he found it initially alarming when upon meeting up with the larger military force that had arrived to retrieve him, he was mostly ignored unless he asked a question the soldiers considered relevant to the travels.
Being a confident young man, Sylvain initially considered this the eccentricities of citybound soldiering- his beliefs on the formalities and expectations of the militia within the de facto capital of the south managed to help smooth over any doubt about his personal safety or future. For a while. It wasn't until he was a few short days out from the city when he finally began to experience the anxiety and fear one would expect from a village peasant in these circumstances. Sylvain knew that the mayor, Lord Leblanc, was not just a noble but a war mage. Or at least a graduate from a college that trained war mages- the young man had no clue about what that entailed or what the mayor had achieved throughout his life. The fisherman only knew that mages were powerful, and war mages were terrifyingly so. When he was hastily brought into the grand estate without even a whisper of explanation his fears finally cemented themself.
And there he stood, struggling to remain at attention in front of a well-built man in his later years. His eyes quickly bounced between the well groomed beard and mustache upon the baron's face, the dark blue Mage Corps jacket on the high back of the dark wood desk chair, the steely eyes of the man, and the beautiful view of the river in the window behind the seated lord. I wish he would just tell me what's happening instead of letting me stand here and- Sylvain's thoughts were interrupted by the southern noble's deep voice as he cleared his throat then began to speak, the papers finally stacked and neatly placed where they belong on the oak desk.
"Sylvain of Careaux, I appreciate your patience while I finalized my work for the morning. How have you found my home?" As the lord spoke, he smoothed his hands across the wood desk creating the subtle sound of coarse skin on wood, before leaning back and resting his hands in his lap and obscured behind the desk. With an intake of breath through his nose, Sylvain made his attempt at a response.
"Sir I-"
"Incorrect," chastised the baron lightly. "My formal address would be My Lord, Lord Mayor, Lord Leblanc, or in some circumstances Baron Leblanc. Now, try again."
At that moment the young fisherman wanted nothing more than to be back home. Careaux was simple and without nobility, the closest of which would be the village's own mayor but that position was chosen by the local judge upon recommendation, and for as long as Sylvain had been alive was a kind old man that lived near his home. Sylvain enjoyed being a fisherman, he thought he enjoyed the militia as well but the experience with the soldiers had slightly spoiled it for him. Being a fisherman, however, was something he took pride in. It was good and honorable work, honest work that he found peaceful and natural. Be it his crab pots or throwing out a net on his pirogue, Sylvain always felt at home in the water.
He studied the features of the baron once more, his waxed mustache curled in on itself and refined appearance with the accompaniment of his functionable yet well designed clothing left Sylvain further intimidated. Considering himself a true Careaux boy, and being once proud of his Vermilion Isles heritage, the cowed young man struggled to regain what little confidence remained before his correction from the mayor. Upon realization that he spent too long in silence, he quickly attempted to regain some footing and address the baron in the manner considered appropriate. Deep breaths, it will be fine. Treat him like any officer for now, just with a fancier title.
"My Lord, I find myself" he swallowed "unable to deny the beauty of your home and city, yet extremely out-of-place."
Upon the slight raise of the baron's eyebrow and the slight forward lean the gentleman took, Sylvain assumed he once again made a mistake. I'm going to get myself killed and I've barely spoken a single word. Barely gotten any out of my escorts either. The fisherman thought back to the words he most commonly heard upon making inquiries about where he is headed and why; "The Baron demands your presence." It started at first as an exciting and mysterious explanation but slowly took on a more insidious context in his mind as the days dragged on during his travels. As thoughts and fears crowded Sylvain's mind and he began to spiral, the baron spoke up once again seemingly ignoring the answer to the question he asked the fisherman.
"I see you are eager to get on with it, very well." The baron rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and began to search around in a drawer before he removed a stone tablet and placed it delicately upon the clear surface of his desk. He cleared his voice and waited, seemingly for Sylvain to be settled in the chair across from him, then began a speech worthy of his title and name.
"The Barony of Port Dusk is ostensibly ruled by Marquess Cavalier, but the majority of his focus is in running the military affairs of the March. As his senechal, the administrative duties of managing Port Dusk and the more mundane aspects of governance falls upon my shoulders. As the Marquess is often in the reaches of the East with his expeditionary forces or out on the seas protecting our interests from the ancestral enemy. Local protection and domestic military affairs fall under me for Port Dusk, but our usual military obligation is different from what you might expect for our- my house. We are still the guardians of the city, protectors of the 'Cradle of the River Kingdom,' which is why I still have a significant complement of soldiers and many competent knights. This house, my great house, has a problem ailing it, however."
The baron began his speech looking into the corner of the room where a painting of the city rested against the wall, but as his explanation went on the focus converged into Sylvain's eyes which sent an involuntary shudder through the fisherman. The baron rose from his seat, keeping eye contact, but motioned for Sylvain to remain seated when the young man shot up to stand as well. The baron rested a hand briefly over the stone tablet and cleared his throat, before finally explaining the reason for the demand at Sylvain's presence. One that had the young man recoiling upon hearing it.
"This tablet performs a task that usually is done once per year by proctors that would travel to places more distant from major society, such as your home. Its function is that upon a hand that has been recently opened across the palm being pressed into the face of it, the tablet can measure the aptitude of someone in reference to being a practitioner of the aetherial skills- or a mage as it is more commonly called. The 'mageblood' as the peasantry call it, is the aether that flows through the channels found in your veins and arteries. This tablet will drain your Aether Core until it has taken the amount required to cast a single cantrip. If you are conscious, then congratulations that means you have the most basic requirement for an apprenticeship for magehood: your Aether Core is naturally large enough to cast a single cantrip. Do you know what the other requirement is Sylvain?"
The young man, whose eyebrows climbed into his hairline by that point, started to shake his head before remembering the importance of formality with one such as the baron. The slight shake must have been noticed however, because the baron continued past whatever explanation Sylvain was going to give as if he had said no.
"That is fine, but I will test the second requirement if you meet the first. It will be by taking this crystal in the same hand that we use to measure upon the tablet" he held up a small blue crystal that gave off a faint light "and holding it tight with your hand closed around it. After a few moments it will get hot to the touch, too hot for you to hold and at that point you will drop it- which is fine, this crystal is cheap and replaceable. But the amount of time it takes to get to that burning temperature is the second test, and as long as it happens within a reasonable amount of time you pass both tests and are able to be trained as a mage without needing to prepare. It means you are ready for an apprenticeship and don't need to spend months or years strengthening your Aether Channels or meditating to enlarge your Core. Now let's begin."
At some point in the Lord Mayor's explanation, a small knife ended up in his hand. Sylvain was too taken aback by the words to have the capacity to focus on anything else, and he merely watched on in stunned silence as the older man carefully cut across the palm of his right hand. Blood began dripping out immediately, and the baron brought Sylvain's hand down to the stone tablet and firmly pressed it. Sylvain's left clutched at the desk in pain, and he felt it. A tug. Something deep within Sylvain, primal, was being taken. He couldn't resist as it flowed out through the wound in his hand and into this strange tablet, but after a few agonizing seconds that left Sylvain drenched in sweat and panting it stopped.
Sylvain was slumped against the desk but still barely on his feet, and the baron had a smile when the young man looked at him. What is this? Am I in some strange dream? Did I get hurt on the way to the city and fall into a coma? His musings were interrupted by the baron straightening him, and then carefully placing the crystal into his still-bleeding hand. Within seconds it was burning hot and searing the open cut on his palm, Sylvain dropped the crystal with a hiss- one that was overshadowed by the boisterous and somewhat crazed sounding laughter of the baron. The man came around the table and put both hands on Sylvain's shoulder, and a servant materialized and began attending to the wound on his hand with cloth and a bandage.
"Wonderufl news my boy," spoke the Baron with a bright smile that almost reached his eyes. The older man's strong hands squeezed Sylvain's shoulders with enough force for him to feel trapped, but not cause him physical pain.
"You are going to be a mage."
After a brief pause, the smile faded back to a more stoic expression- one that Sylvain recognized from when the baron was shuffling the papers and organizing them into piles on his desk. Piles that had been knocked over in the excitement and were now being picked up by the swarm of servants that slowly trickled into the room- that and others he could barely focus on in the clamor. The wound was wrapped, but ached yet, and he could feel his heartbeat in his ears- see it in his eyes as the room began to blur and spin. The next sentence from the baron as he stood over Sylvain was somehow grounding and like the strike of lightning all at once. There was no humor in the chuckle that accompanied the baron's words.
"Congratulations, you have the opportunity to restore the honor your father lost for our house."