Legends are funny things.
Born from stories, they’re clear, undeniable proof of time that’s been invested in the idea of the fantastic—of the human desire to push off our involvement with the fringes of reality.
My story began many years ago, on a spring day without wind. I was born to one Engbok and Loriette Krow. Like most stories, there is a beginning, a middle, and an end, and although my story began many years ago, the legend only truly started when I found the book.
I’ll spare you the details of why I was in the woods of Lunnon rather than at my lessons on that fateful day. I can only learn my maths and reasons for so long before my mind does this wonderful thing.
The magic of scrying came quite naturally to me, although I rarely could control it. I’d be with my mentors, getting marks far lower than the protégés in class, and then—in a blink—I’d be miles above the ground.
Wind lifted my wings and, with every gust, I adjusted my flight pattern. Through keen eyes, I saw children circled around an adult who wielded a sword, or a map, or an instrument of science. For a moment, I thought I might recognize one of the children but none of that mattered to the mind of a falcon.
I was the falcon and that was all I was.
But only just, for moments later, I was crawling through tall grass, chittering about, scavenging for seeds and nuts and berries. The larger forms sitting on the lawn didn’t pay me much mind and I kept my distance from the likes of them and other potential predators.
My mind would wander fro, from creature to beast, so on and so forth until finally, I came to and once more I was me, sitting in class with nothing much to do about it.
On this particular day, I ventured into the forest every chance I got. Something deep in the woods called to me. Whether by slithering, crawling, or stalking, I followed after a whisper, beckoning me closer.
Then my human feet took me, no longer of my own free will.
I was possessed by curiosity.
“Harlow, Harlow,” I heard through the rustling of leaves.
“Harlow, Harlow,” the sunlight seemed to say.
So I went, deep, and chased my interest until I came upon the start of my story.
I found a blank book.
Now, are you ready? I’ll make you privy to something I did not know at the time. For how could I know this tome, with an aged and cracked spine and its hundreds of bare bleached pages, was—in fact—a grimoire?
One that belonged to a myth, a legend, a Genesis Adventurer . . .
The one and only Mordecai.