Hedge Wizard Gorg of the Sun

Memento Calor

Litter. Pack. Safety in numbers. These concepts fleet through the mind not as constructs for the intellect to decipher, but as images, scents, tastes - as Warmth. The kind of warmth he could remember enjoying as he would rest lazily - shaggy head comfortably shaded beneath the canopy of their favorite tree, his torso sprawled out in the sun.

The heat of tempers, passions and strong wills, testing the bounds of his mates - exploring their limits - physical and psychological. But as the steel blade is violently thrust into the forge, reaching fever pitch only to be rudely quenched in frigid water, so too is the pack forged stronger by the clashing and reconciliation of wilful young minds.

Memento Lux

What then of Light? The bringer of life it is said, and that which chases away the darkness without and within. As Gorg remembers the Light, he smiles his once famous smile - canines on excellent display, half threatening but mostly mirthful. Though a lifetime ago now, that fateful day tinged with both elation and fear occupies his mind.

A piercing scream had set him running, down the gorge he loped panting all the way - to be greeted by colors so vivid and beautiful, crimson blood against dark matted fur. For such had been the ways of invincible youth, of boundless courage and energy. Standing there trying to stem the flow of blood, failing to still his fluttering heart and desperate to save his litter mate's fleeting life, he had been irrevocably changed.

For in that moment, paws and arms soaked in vermillion hues as Gorg had applied anguished pressure, the clouds parted and the Sun had struck his hide. Like tinder to kindling, guided by passion and potential alike, the Arcane in him had flared to life. Around him the very earth had resonated and spoken, and Gorg had answered; as this new magic raced through his veins, so too it permeated the plant life around him - as they responded to his need. Before his eyes the grass grew soft beneath his mate, the vines stretched and curled around the injured form creating a protective cocoon.

And thus, light - feeding him as it did his new verdant family - had saved a life.

Memento Dolor

Once awakened, his particular skills in the arcane had set him on a path of learning, yearning and - in fleeting moments - understanding. Now an invaluable member of the pack, Gorg had quickly grown into the role of protector and healer - and enjoyed many seasons exploring his magical abilities. However, relieving others of their pain had in no way prepared him for his own.

It began with a few falling ill, and his normal cures seemed to do the trick well enough. Though, as more and more of his kin fell ill with racking coughs and fever, those seemingly on the mend would take a sudden turn for the worse. Then the deaths started, and realization struck like a viper on unsuspecting prey; a plague was upon them.

His own quarantine and frantic studies reached a fever pitch of their own, his whole pack dwindling around him, until one day the culprit he found. Rats. The vermin had brought the sickness, and they too were dying. In a final desperate attempt, he had thrown caution to the wind and broken his isolation and brought the sole remaining rat out into the scorching sun and for the first time opened himself up completely, surrendering to the magic. Light and searing heat, as though fire surged though his veins, became a tempest channeled into the unconscious rat until he could take the pain no more and collapsed.

Coming to, under a full moon in the quiet of night, he had found a much improved rat deep in slumber, fever free and breathing freely. Elated, he rushed back into town fully prepared to martyr himself to the torrentous tempest of sun magic - only to find utter silence. His pack, his family, were all dead.

A rage overcame him then, and had he not been so fully exhausted, had the sun - source of his powers - not already set, then his fury would surely have extinguished the small sole survivor there and then. As fate would have it, the bearer of sickness was lucky twice that same night, and well enough; for the insensate rodent was surely not to blame.

Memento Mori

Rising from his supine pose, Gorg shook off the memories of days long past. The sun no longer warmed him, nor his long dead pack and family, and even the pain had faded to a dull ache - leaving him merely with sadness and resignation in his heart.

"I believe it is time," Gorg quietly growled and his sole companion and familiar quickly scampered up his back to settle in his favorite spot on his shoulder, little tail draped around his neck.

"Squeak!" came the resigned reply, whiskers trembling as tiny beady eyes met his own.

Shifting his gaze, yellow glowing eyes again appraised the flame dancing lazily before them. Perhaps death though immolation, then, could rekindle the warmth he so sorely missed.

Entered by: 0x95a4…49d1 and preserved on chain (see transaction)