ORD

I have seen the films, young orators — read the novels, heard the stories and songs echoing through these halls. Those who come to magic come in this day and age come, in part, to shoot fire out of their hands. Through Ord, you may accomplish this, and thus you will face the most scrutiny in these classes. 

As quickly as the mind can think it, Ord can make it so. An arrow threatens to pierce your skin? Alcazar hardens the body, making it impenetrable. A dark hallway looms before you, begging for clarity? Scintilla will light your outstretched torch. Even in an endless desert, with the sun beating down on you and your mouth dry and dizzy without water — Yepsen will produce it, cupped in your hands, a portable oasis. 

But not without cost, without sacrifice. For every easy solution, the scales of nature demands a counterbalance to your whims. Your breath itself will feed your flames and your water, your very will impressing limits on what you can accomplish with such power. And it is a power that corrupts the weak-willed and the selfish minded. 

There is a tale, from a land long ago, of a conqueror driven half-mad with thirst for a kingdom, propelled ever forward by his self-appointed destiny. He trod through village after village, through forest and field and rivers innumerable, and with the smallest of armies (little more than a royal guard) and the strength of his will and word he laid every challenger low, and bent their knees to his rule. 

Until, at last, he came across a city at the mouth of a peninsula, a roaring river and drawbridge separating it from the mainland. Surrounded by stone and steel, guarded by towers that nearly scraped the clouds, it would not yield to threat nor siege, resisting the will of the would-be king. He left his soldiers behind, and stood on the river's banks, looking upon the city alone as a final warning. When the bridge would not lower, he drew in a deep breath, and roared a word that had not been sung since the dragons of old had first carved the world. 

When the dust settled, the river was all but gone, dried up, a carved chasm left in its place. The king strode across the mud and soot, and pushed open the doors, still engulfed in flames. Never had one man spoken with such power — and even he knew, or claimed to know, that such a thing should never repeated. 

In the myths, the flames would burn forever, and a new city was built around them, feeding the hearths and ovens of the royal city. For it was his city, now, and to prove he would never again devastate his kingdom in such a torrent of destruction, he removed the power of that word by bringing it to common parlance. He recorded that place as his capital and put the word on every map, naming the city Scathefire.

It is a good story, and a good warning: that mad king bought his kingdom with such a word, and so set into motion his own usurpation. Ultimate power, ultimate corruption. As you go on to create, young orator, do not forget this: be sure you can withstand the heat of the fires you create.