1.2

 Aytheur's stay at the Academy proved to be disastrous and short. The strings of high society were pulled to get him in. More than one blind eye was turned, at first, to his heritage. For a few glorious months, Aytheur soaked up knowledge. There were no classes, professors or grades here.* Instead, each day the most respected philosophers would teach their students and disciples whatever came to their mind. Metallurgy and engineering he learned from dwarves, philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, rhetoric and the arts from elves. Philosophy was king among these, but Ballea was, above all, a warrior kingdom. The arts of war: martial combat, tactics and strategy, were the most consistent area of study for all students. 
[as one would expect, since this Academy fills the cultural role of a university]

  Most people have no talent for magic, though they may learn simple charms and spells. Those who were born with a gift for magic had to refine it though constant practice. Myriad volumes have been composed on ways to master magic, to increase it, and what new used a power can be put to.  
A very few have a much closer tie with magic. They are generally known as trolls. Whatever their race, trolls have some connection to an element: fire, air, stone, or water. For these, the trouble is not accessing magic when they desire to, but leaving it alone the rest of the time. From the first moment a troll realizes the gift, it becomes ever present.  

  Aytheur is a troll, just as father had been; gifted with fire. As a child, though, the magic went unrealized and unexpressed. But the Academy confronted and challenged him like nothing among the Elrodore had. During one martial session, the troll discovered his fire. Another student, a haughty high-elf, landed a particularly painful blow. The temper flared. So did his skin. Just for a moment. It was barely more than a spark, a candle's flame, but it might have been the falling of a great house-tree. The whispers started within minutes. By evening, strangers were afraid to make eye contact. A day later, people were asking if he was the Firebringer—or worse, assuming he was. His bunk in the communal barracks was decidedly unsafe. A kind philosopher, T’Ricordon, a dwarf, mercifully permitted Aytheur to sleep in his foundry. One full, tense day passed before a student discovered Aytheur's new abode. That night, a mob surrounded it with torches in their hands and revenge in their hearts. The respected Ambassador Belien, now a philosopher, tried to turn back the crowd. Someone hit him. The forge erupted in flames. Though Aytheur has some talent in tricking fire out of things which would not normally burn, he was no less flammable than most. The best the moderating philosophers* could do was commit Aytheur to exile rather than death. Ostracism. Most elves would rather death. 

*[I had trouble explaining this: philosopher essentially functions as “professor” in this Academy. The title “T,” functions as “Dr.” It is short for the dwarven word meaning “smith.”]

  There is a space between the Infinite Forest and the fertile goblin coasts on the east. Although this rugged country could not have been called lush or fertile, it was certainly habitable. Before the great war, orcs made this their home. Now it was a miserable desert. The plants nearly all destroyed by instabilities inherent to elven war engines. The animal life, what remained, were grotesque mutations of their former species, similarly ruined by orcish tampering. There are the wastelands. 

  Aytheur crossed them in a haze. He was barely aware of the journey; he fled Ballea on reflex. Magic naturally draws its power from the life and the spirit of the wielder. Like a muscle, it can be exercised and strengthened. Similarly, it can be overexerted, strained, or torn if poorly cared for. On that thirsty, staggering eastward journey, Aytheur pushed his body and his magic well beyond strained.

  Of course, he had always intended to journey to the goblins. To the clan Bharrak. They were his father's people, and therefore his, even without ties of blood. But Aytheur did not seek to join them for that reason alone. He actually intended to teach them, to reform them. It was something ever elf desired but only he could do, because surely goblins would listen to a wizard's son.

  In this way, all of elven belief was expressed in Aytheur. The goblins were noble creatures, though terribly savage, brutish and short-lived to develop civilization. After all, an elf felt no real effect of age until past their hundred fiftieth year, but a goblin who lived a third that long was counted ancient beyond imagination. Furthermore, goblins were, of course, inferior to elves in every way; particularly in the mental powers. There were fundamentally savage. Aytheur felt himself a prophet and ambassador of civilization. How would those noble goblins react to him?

<<<<<1.3>>>>>
That essentially ends the prologue. Someday I may figure out how to start this story with all the boring exposition. 

 The wastelands are not normally kind to the inattentive. The land is more a savanna than a desert. There is sufficient water, but it is concentrated in small springs, oasis and watering holes. At one such oasis Aytheur made his limited camp. 
 In Terna, a village on the boader of the desert, Aytheur bought what supplies he could for the journey east. No one recognized him, but that was hardly surprising, Aytheur's appearance barely betrayed his heritage. He is heavier than the average elf, and wider of face, but his pointed ears and straight blond hair were like anyone's. The villiages had thought him quite mad to wander out into the wastelands alone.  
 Everyone had heard the story of Breant Kohane, the dwarf who undertook a scientific study of a goblin tribe. He was proclaimed the bravest man of his generation – at the height of the dwarven civil war. And he certainly did not go alone. Yet this fellow, who gave his name as the very elven Arthorus, was tremendously more ambitious.  
 By the sixth day in the wastelands, Aytheur's ambition was first really measured. The morning dew was the tiniest of thin layers. It covered him and his blankets in annoying dampness. In a few minutes the sun would rise. The dew would be gone in a few minutes more. Aytheur resolved to sleep a bit longer and let the sun dry him before he started. What hurry did he have anyway?
 Something small skittered across his chest, some insect sucking moisture from the bedroll. Aytheur, without thinking, brushed it away. This Elrodore was more than used to the annoyances of sleeping where insects could intrude. Perhaps the last several months of real houses – a luxury the wild elves used only for winter quarters – had spoiled him. Perhaps he still felt the mind-numbing effects of overexerting his magic a week before. Most likely he simply did not account for the powerfully venomous creatures of the wastelands before brushing at it. The small creature stung him, and Aytheur passed into a world of dreams.