New Coemil (Introduction)

The morning sun broke free from it’s misty prison, unleashing great arms of warmth, that stretched through the quiet streets of the bright White City. The cobblestone roads glittered brightly in the glorified presence of mother morning. Everyone in the White City began to shift in their houses, and open windows to welcome in the warm morning light. On the street of Witch Crick, even the hovel’s and tenements of the peasant-class became a little less dreary. Young children rushed out of the doors to play in the streets, only to be beckoned back in by their sickly mothers, with missing teeth.
Another day was beginning in the city of New Coemil, from the mage-noble housing, to the hovels of Witch Crick. City guards began their morning patrols, their steel armor gleaming bright, embellishing the symbol of the White Lion proudly. They walked in squads of six, a pair in the front, a pair in the middle, and a pair in the back, clanking down the sharp metal butt of their halberds against the white cobblestones with every third step. They kept a careful eye out, scanning the city with their peripheral vision, as they passed.
But something not noticed by the guard, were four dwarf-folk creeping from the streets into a manhole in Brick-Stack Alley. They moved with a stealth that wasn’t typical for the stumpy brutish man-like race, and they all wore a purposeful grey cloak that boar a symbol which meant nothing to many, yet everything to some. It was a circle with a symbol of a scowling dark eye in it. This symbol was ancient, and it was kept a secret from all but those who walked the streets of the mythical desert city a great many years ago, before the high mages created a protective barrier that denied entrance into the desert lands.
In moments, the group of mysterious dwarves vanished into the underground labyrinths of the city sewer systems, and the city continued to awaken. In a modest home, surrounded by the dirty hovels of Witch Crick street, lived a father and son. The father was a stern and arrogant man, who felt he knew better than any other, including his superiors at the mage school he was employed at. But this adventure does not concern him. This story does, however, include the gentle and innocent son of the man.
The son began to stir in his covers, to the sounds of the waking city. He erupted from the covers, throwing his thin, long arms into the air, and arching his back, as he let out a yawn that was similar to the mighty roar of the fabled White Lion of New Coemil. His long, wavy, sand-colored hair flew back with his head from the force of his mighty yawn, and the boy’s shut eyes burst open, welcoming in the sites of the awakening city from the window across from his bed. And the glorious morning streets welcomed his bright blue eyes back, calling him from his bed.
Nadion Erevan slid out of his warm covers, and the chill of the morning caught his attention, as he scrambled for his morning cloak to cover his almost-bare body. He found the great plum-colored thing, lying on the floor at the foot of his bed, and quickly draped it around and over him, warding off the chills of the misleadingly welcoming morning light. He stretched once again, this time noticing a small piece of paper sitting on his bedroom chest.
It was a list of chores from his father; what a surprise. Clean the house, weed the garden, gather fresh water from the well, bathe, organize his father’s papers from work, the list went on and on. Everyday his father wrote out a schedule for him to follow, but today it was different. On the back there was a small note.
“Nadion, it is most important that you complete these tasks with haste, but that you take pride in your work. This evening Under-mage Levestis is coming over to dinner so that he may interview me for the next chair at the mage school. This is my chance to become a mage, instead of just a scribe. I am counting on you, son, and if you cannot complete these few tasks properly, then you would be wise to not return home after shop.
Your father,
-Berrian Erevan”

Nadion always found it amusing how his father addressed himself to his son as “Berrian Erevan” first and last name, as if Nadion was unfamiliar of his own family name. His father never was informal with his son. He envied all of his friends, for their father’s hugged them openly, and let them call him Papa or Da, where as Berrian required his son to call him only ‘Father‘. Anything else was deemed a sign of disrespect to Berrian. Still, this made Nadion feel more like an employee in his father’s family, rather than anything else.
Though Nadion felt aggravated by his father’s threat, he obliged. Nadion slipped into his pants and pulled on a dirty, moss-colored tunic, and began to clean the house. He shook his head when he saw the mess of papers scattered all over his father’s desk, and eyed the low-burning flame in the hearth, and giggled to himself. He imagined the day he would be independent enough to toss his father’s mess into the fire. He then shook his head, and continued cleaning up his father’s mess, and the rest of the house. He used a ratty old rag to dust the cobwebs out of the corners, and took the broom out of the closet, and swept up the dark-oak floors.
Finally, the inside was clean enough for Nadion to begin his outdoor chores, so he slipped on his autumn jacket, and opened the cracked wooden door, and gazed down the street. The peasant-children were playing in the streets. Nadion was probably the eldest youngster on Witch Crick; being 16 he was considered by many as more of an adult. His face was young and smooth, and he was abnormally clean, which often caused him to be mistaken for a mage student. And he certainly wasn’t. He was a shop boy, and the son of a scribe.
“Nadion! Oh dear Nadion! Thank High Mage Lord Zaetis you’re up!” Running down the street, towards his open doorway, was Nadion’s young neighbor Lucille. She was just a child, but everyone on Witch Crick agreed that she was going to grow into a beautiful little thing, even though she was only 9 star cycles old. “Nadion, please come help, my kitty is stuck in the cheap-street-oak.” She pulled on Nadion’s jacket.
“Lucille, I have so much to do today, I really don’t have time to rescue your kitten.” And instantly Lucille’s face dropped, and her pupils dilated, as tears formed in the corners of her violet-colored eyes. Nobody had will-power enough to resist Lucille’s beautiful innocence. And Nadion quickly stooped down to her, hugged her, and allowed her to lead him to the cheap-street-oak. There was a noticeably beauty to Witch Crick street, but only the peasant-class truly seemed to understand the meaning of humble family.