Firesoul/Watersoul Genasi Swordmage
Ajaier Felsennest, a Genasi sits smoking a churchwarden leaning up against the stone fountain in the town square of Westgate. The orange energy lines streaking across his muscular body and face accentuate a large scar running from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. Streaks of flame flicking from the top of his head indicate his Flamesoul ancestry Elves and Humans, Dwarves and Dragonborn, Halflings and a few of almost every race in the Faerûn go about their day with not a care but for themselves. Occasionally Ajaier would notice a child bump into a stranger, a moment later to walk away with a tattered coin purse in their hands. His bowl of pipe-weed nearly gone, he reaches under his red and white sash with the seal of the Anarchs of Shyr embroidered on it, to pull out a small bag of tobacco to refill his bowl. As near any Genasi would recognize, that sash marks him as a master of his order. Pulling out a match he lights his pipe, and closes his eyes to listen to the hustle and bustle of the day.
Moments later a Genasi woman with light blue-green skin and blue energy lines walks into the town square accompanied by a young Windsoul Swordmage. Noticing his master sitting against the fountain, the Windsoul jogs over to Ajaier.
“Teacher, I met this Watersoul in the inn. Her family of merchants are plagued by the retched pirates of the Dragonmere. They offer to pay handsomely for the assistance of the Anarchs,”
Ajaier barely lifts an eye at his student and takes in a deep breath of smoke. Releasing the smoke slowly, he asks, “Pay handsomely you say?”
“And is the fact that we have sworn to defend our Genasi brethren not payment enough?”
“Well yes it is, but…”
“Yes, yes, we have been relatively low on coin as of late. Between the two reasons, a fine job you’ve found for us Darsk-Oni,” Standing up, Ajaier Draws his sword and pats it against his chest in a salute to the woman indicating his acceptance of the job. A sparkle in her eye, keeps his gaze a moment too long before he turns again to his student, “Round up the others. We leave immediately,”
A bloody crusade to eradicate the pirates plaguing the Dragonmere ensues. Amazingly only two of Ajaier’s sudents lose their lives in the 3 year campaign. Towards the end of the crusade Ajaier begins a courtship with the Watersoul woman, and they eventually marry. Ajaier decides to found an academy in the Dry Dragonmere as a refuge for Genasi in the Dragon Coast. This academy of the Anarchs of Shyr becomes known for their continuous fight against the pirates of the Dragonmere, and as sell-swords in their own right.
A Watersoul woman walks carrying a newborn boy out of the small cavern that acts as the quarters for Ajaier and his wife. This master of the academy for the Anarchs of Shyr looks at his newborn son with pride in his eyes as the first flickers of flame rise from his head. Ajaier receives his son and takes a step toward the cavern before the woman puts a hand up and shakes her head. His wife had died during the ordeal of childbirth. He wipes a tear from his eye with his right hand, his left occupied by his son. Looking down once more at the Firesoul newborn he smiles, heading toward the training hall he says one word still in hearing distance of the midwife,
Ajaier stands just outside the practice ring in the training hall he had built almost 15 years earlier. He barks out two names,
Two young Genasi step forward into the ring. The Windsoul and Firesoul wielding practice swords tap their apprentice blades together and immediately begin a sparring match. To the untrained eye, it would look like a dance, the 13 year old boys swords tapping against each other creating a steady beat as their feet move from position to position. Attack, parry, attack, counter, thrust, and on and on. However to Ajaier’s masterful gaze he could near tell the outcome of the battle from the first two strikes. Slowly, as usual the Windsoul, Jardeth-Oni gains advantage and beats back Alastair. Step by step, Jardeth forces Alastair to the edge of the ring. Silently rooting for his son, he thinks to himself,
Come on, sidestep, circle, get back to the center. Don’t let him beat you again.
Jardeth feigns a mistake, Alastair lunges at the opening in his defense and Jardeth easily counters. Stepping behind Alastair, Jardeth sweeps his feet from under him and Alastair crashes to the ground.
“You’re never going to beat me Alastair, I’ve been besting you since we were kids. You’ll always just be second best”
The smallest twinge of disappointment escapes Ajaier’s composure in the form of a slight shake of his head. Hoping his son missed the movement he rushes to begin the day’s lesson.
Two solid thuds at his door resound in the Master’s chamber. Ajaier calls out asking who is there. His son. He gets up from sharpening his blade and opens his door inviting his son to join him on the pillows littering the sitting area of the chamber.
“What can I do for you Alastair?”
“I’m tired of losing father. There must be something I’m missing. Some technique that I don’t know, some lesson I have yet to master”
“I’ve taught you since you were able son. Twenty years you have studied to become an Anarch of Shyr. You are a capable Swordmage, and you do have the knowledge to best Jardeth. You just don’t apply the knowledge. You don’t notice flaws in his form. You fall for his tricks. You are a good fighter. You simply lack experience.”
“What can I do?”
“I’ve been thinking about this for a very long time Alastair. I can’t send you on missions with our order. You don’t yet have the skill to combat the enemies an Anarch of Shyr must face. I think the best way for you to gain the experience you need is to go out on your own. I will give you supplies, but the time has come for you to find your own destiny and return to us when you have the experience to be dubbed an Anarch of Shyr,”