Maho was born to a slave whore in the slave fortress of Cerak At'Thul
. He was taken from his mother, being presumed a bastard child - as many of them were - and was given to village nurses to care for. In there care, he was given very little food and drink, and forced to do very basic labour, having to move rubble in small bags, carry water through the village, and forage for food. He however, wasn't destined to be a commoner, he was destined to be a slave, and that was, and is, his ascribed title. When he reached the age of 9, he was forced into the slave mines underneath the stones of the fortress, to toil from early in the morning, until night peers it's head over the horizon. The days were long and excruciating, his small stature, smashing against the minerals with the burden of the pick, blistering his small hands, and cutting his young fingers. His fate was shared with countless others, of all races. Orcs, humans
and even elves were in the mines, working so they could eat. working so they could survive.
There he would work until he attained 14 years of life, for henceforth he would be cattle, bought and sold to the highest bidder. He was carried out of the mines by slavers into large, pen-like carriages. He and countless others were hauled to the centre of the lower village to be sold, as without slavery the fortress would lose it's only source of income, and their greed and want came before the children's wellbeing. There he'd stay, without food and drink, waiting for someone to take a fancy, or maybe just because they needed another whipping boy. He'd watched on as rich merchants would coerce the slavers into bargaining and dealing in bulk, buying 15 slaves, 25 slaves, however many they needed. Slowly the drive and fight in the eyes of the slaves would simply fade with time, knowing they would live the rest of their years out as they had.
However, a faithful day came when someone odd had entered the town. There would be whispers of him in the wind, the breeze would speak of his presence, as he entered the borders of the slavers-bay. A robed man stepped into the merchants quarter, the various traders becoming nervous and agitated by his presence. He looked into the cages, and his eyes peered into Maho's. They seeped through the mist and ash of the town, a prevalent light in an abandoned cave. They soared through Maho's mind, seeing into his deepest thoughts, searching for the hope that was still in his soul.
Next thing he knew, he was on the back of some creature, with the robed man sitting in front.
This man was a Kavosh. An ancient and almost extinct sub-species of human.
This would be the beginning of his long journey that would take him to places unknown, The Wizard Jerik taking him under his wing, teaching him the fundamentals of magic. He was also taught the ancient language of Ozkavosh, the dying language of the Kavosh people, slowly reaching fluency as he grew older. Maho began to build an obsession with knowledge, being taught to read was an exciting activity for him. Jerik forever supplying books for the young warlock, the information being absorbed constantly, with Maho peering over them long into the night.
However, slowly but surely, Maho began to become tired of the slow learning methods used by Jerik, and hungered to learn more. Knowing he could not stifle his hunger for knowledge, they travelled to Elbion
. Known across Arethil for it's famous college, calling to all those in the world who hunger for magical prowess and knowledge. It was many months travel, but they eventually arrived. Jerik had made his disdain for the college very clear; giving Maho a very important piece of advice that he would carry throughout his life:
"You thought, as a boy, that a mage is one who can do anything. So I thought. Once. So did we all. And the truth is that as a man's real power grows and his knowledge widens, ever the way he can follow grows narrower: until at last he chooses nothing, but does only and wholly what he must do. . . ."
From there, he was left to his own devices. He entered the college, and asked how he could apply. Slowly, but surely, he found his way into the college by showing basic skills he'd been taught many years prior. And officially, he had started his term at the College of Elbion.
It wasn't long before he began to make a name for himself; he could pick up magical concepts far quicker than many of the other students could, much to their disdain. The concepts of the elements and the arcane came to him like breathing came to a newborn, it was simply instinct.
He began to be introduced to Advanced Maesters at a young age, being introduced to very advanced concepts, being believed to be by most as a magical prodigy. He found his newfound skills very empowering, the change he'd made from when he was once a slave astounded him, and he hungered for that feeling. He couldn't help but brag to his new friends of his arcane ability.
Soon, he was introduced to a member of the council, known as the 'Name Changer'. He sat in an isolated section of the academy, studying how magic could be used to permanently change objects in existence, a concept outright disbelieved by all scholars. He taught him what was known as 'The Old-Speech'. Maho was told that this was what gave the creators of the world their power, allowing them to alter objects for good.
For the next 2 years, he would sit day and night, learning the names of the various objects and elements in the world. It was a long time for a boy to sit in a room, doing nothing but mastering a dead language.
His new found power (along with his knowledge) was all too much for him. He thought he could do the impossible, and permanently change the matter of an object, in essence, magic that would never fade, more than just an illusion. In front of all his fellow students, he boasted of this ability, only to be challenged to do that which he claimed. Clearly he could not talk himself down, and vowed he could. In front of the whole faculty, he attempted to lift the entire college from it's foundations. He surged with the thought of his attempt, and began to stream energy forth, shaking the ground beneath him.
He didn't realise, however, the price that came with the Herald of Fate.
All magic has a price.
The energy he had called bounced back, his experience and confidence failing him, the energy discharging him into the air. He felt a mighty crack as he hit the floor, and everything went dark.
Floating in an out of conciousness, the pain was unberable. Nightmares of dark figures and ravines that spanned for miles. When he came to, he woke up in the medical ward, with experienced Maesters watching him carefully. He was being channelled by several mages, for the wounds he had sustained. It has been 4 weeks since his attempt. He had broken both his arms, and sustained a bloody scar on the left side of his face. It had been healed however, but left a great white mark where it was. A reminder.
From that day, he wasn't so eager. He wasn't so bright either. He would go through lessons with fear and contempt, too afraid of what he might do, to himself or those around him. He resided himself to his books, hoping he could fill the gap with information and wisdom. He should have headed his Master's advice, for when a candle is lit, it leaves a shadow.
The council of Maesters decided to let him continue his Arcane Education at Elbion, depsite his abhorable behaviour and conduct, and after many years of hard study (and therapy provided by healers) he had finished his formal education at the College of Elbion, earning the title of Mage and Wizard, after distinguishing himself for his control of energy and pure magical essence. He was provided with a robe, and a copper ended staff. He decided to carry the nickname he had been given by his 'friends', Sparhawk
, after the bird native to Elbion, that carries a striking white mark across it's wingspan.
He was told to head for the great cities
of Arethil. While initially accepting this, he thought he'd started smaller.
He began to visit the many towns
that made up Arethil. It's many ranges, plateaus and fields. He met the people that farmed these lands, their families, their small, quaint, and happy lives. As he travelled, he learnt, and he began to realise that the World's reliance on magic and technology has made it forget the simple things in many parts of the world. Simple things, fixing a man's boat and enchanting it, towing land, picking vegetables, planting for the spring season; these things were truly what the kin of mages and warriors were protecting from the realms of those that would do terrible in the world. He decided to dedicate his life, not just to magic, but to the people of Arethil, to travel and help, and to live out his days as a Man, as the greatest under-appreciated skill in Arethil, was kindness.
He occasionally visits the College in Elbion, mainly for extra reading, as Elbion has a great library including hundreds of tomes. The Maesters know of reputation, but tend to try and keep away from him, in fear they'll encourage his behaviour.
And as he travels, From island to island, people learn of his name through rumours and hearsay.
The Slave Sorcerer from Cerak At'Thul.
Many goings on have happened in Maho's life thus far. Some good, many bad.
He met Gerra, a half-Giant orc-spawn who leads the Blight Orcs, known for their visceral nature and lack of remorse, making their way across nations making a name for themselves. He opened up ideas to Sparhawk, revealing the possibilities of his power, after taking the Necromancy book from their benefactor. He found he could use his power to take back what he had been thieved, and right the wrongs that he had been dealt.
They travelled to the Orc holds near the Spine
, meeting several ruling Orcs along the way, letting them know of their power and might, offering them to fight in their cause. Usually to failure, but results were common, and often ended in a beneficial deal being made...
Soon, he met his would-be apprentice, Myles Widogast. He attempted to teach him all he knew about the practical forms of magic, and the dangers of over-utilising it. He gave him to the elves so he could be taught more effectively, and in the great mysteries of the Arcane.
He then did something he thought he couldn't. Something he vowed never to do, as most Wizards often do.
He sold his soul...
The Summoner, Telemachus, helped him strike a deal with the Great Fire-Lord Imamu. Imamu promised to grant Sparhawk monumental abilities and knowledge in the Arcane, and the art of Pyromancy
. Of course, nothing is for free. 1800 lives was the toll he had to pay, and - more than that - his soul was no longer his own; the destiny he forged was directed by a greater power, the hammer that struck the steel not being of his own will.
The Battle of Belgrath was a Bloodbath.
The field of battle was rank with the smell of Blood; the Air thick with ash and smoke. The Sound of steel was high, the roars of Gerra and the Orc army, thundering through the obscurity of the fight. Axes cleaved into flesh, meat torn from bone, life indisputably barren.
Sparhawk didn't remember much of the Battle. After his fight with the Necromancer, he seemed to be in a trance; flashes of memory flickered, images of fallen bodies set on fire, limbs strewn brutally about the cave. He could distinctly remember everything being Hot, but beyond that, not much was clear. Everything was shrouded.
When he came to, all he could see was fear.
Dwarf soldiers stared at him with sullen terror in their eyes, standing on the armours and equipments of their fallen brethren, some still squirming beneath their heavy, steel-weave boots. Sparhawk could've sworn he was 10 feet tall, as they all gazed up at him, the tatterings of his robes that clung to his body, soaked in red. Looking down, he noticed his right-arm:
it'd seemed to be blackened; petrified in a char-coal veil. Perfectly movable, but it seemed to seer excruciatingly, trembling, shaken with horror. Horror at what he'd done, horror at the mound of bodies that had amassed in the cave, horror at the light emitting off of him, the panic and alarm written on the faces of the Dwarves
with an unnatural Crimson red.
Leaving the battlefield, he travelled for many months, aimless. He found that the contract had a much higher price than he had bargained for;
He could not sleep, the voices that resided within his mind constantly talking, whispering, screaming, it's cacophony was a barrage to his psych. His body was emancipated by the Sorcery he had used. Through research later in his life, he had found that this was due to his life force being exchanged with arcane energy, which allowed his body to use and contain the magic which Imamu provided him with, at the price of his body. Red and black scars grew across his body, now making their home all the way from the bottom of his ankle, all the way to the nape of his neck.
He visited many people during this time, most of it, however, was spent drinking away his sorrows. He went on a few journeys, mainly to make ends meet, though his lack of sleep made him irritable, and his nightmares made him a shy, stuttering shadow of his former self.
He was Sparhawk's shadow...