As Firki slept, dreams came to him. Unsettling dreams; dreams about his magic. You see Firki, since he found out he had magic, had always had trouble with it. Now he’d never had troubles with demons or spirits while in the fade, he was too smart for that, but doing actual magic never seemed to work. The dream that finally woke him though, was one he could not decipher. An elf, modeling his own facial features, but older, much older, was speaking with a dragon. Firki of course could not hear the conversation since it was just a dream, but he knew that the elf did not possess any magic. The dragon then took the elf’s hand, placing his claws on the wrist. One of the claws eventually pierced the skin, the elf winced in pain, but did not cry out. After that, the elf had gone back to a city, and emitted a ring of fire around a specific area of the city, in which his house was the center. Once inside the house, the man took his son’s hand, and without warning pierced the finger with a knife, before piercing his own. Their blood mixed and the son was forced to lick up the blood.
Firki had woken at that point, but something told him that through that process both elves in his dream had magic; and not just any magic, draconic magic. A magic that one could only get from a dragon willing to share his powers. From the books Firki had read on magic it was one of the most power forms of magic a species other than dragon could wield. It was also a form of magic that came with a transformation. Anyone who accepted magic from a dragon and had a long lifespan, would eventually transform into a dragon. The books on draconic magic describe it as a transformation so painful only one in ten transformations were successful.
“What does this have to do with my magic?” Firki wondered. He wandered down to the stream, where he drew some water for a bath. Refreshed he then went to Syletha’s tent, where she stood with Verimil. Both looked rather stern and Firki shrunk inside. He had wasted a lot of herbs the day before with his inability to produce a proper elixer with his magic. His fear must have been evident because Syletha quickly explained her concern over his magic, how even when everything was done correctly the magic did not produce the proper end result. After she explained everything to Verimil, he had determined that Firki’s magic source had to be examined. Firki hesitantly agreed.
Firki lay on the bed of ferns in Syletha’s tent. Verimil spoke in a calming tongue that Firki did not recognize, but it caused him to close his eyes and sink into a deep darkness. Verimil closed his eyes muttering the words to a spell that had all but lost. A young elf from a sister clan had given him a book a few earlier prior saying it might come in handy, and so it had, fore it had this very spell within it’s bindings. The spell would allow Verimil to go into the very depths of Firki’s magic to determine it’s source.
In minutes Verimil had his answer, but he could not fathom it as being correct. He redid the spell three more times, each time the same answer coming to him. Firki’s origin was draconic magic. “It doesn’t make sense,” he finally voiced out loud. Syletha looked at him with questions in her eyes. He explained his findings, and she found it hard to believe as well. Dragons had not been seen in ages, and their magic had not been noticed for almost the same amount of time. How could Firki have draconic magic? And if it was draconic magic, why did it not behave properly?
They woke Firki, and told him the results were inconclusive. His magic was, for the time, an unknown entity, but Verimil knew another clan leader that would be able to sort it all out. The leader was apart of the Clan Lavellan, and while they were a ways up north, Verimil, was going to make the trek with Firki at dawn. Until then Firki was to use his magic to cast simple spells and detail all the results so that they could give the Lavellan clan leader as much information as they could so he could make a proper determination about Firki’s magic.
So Firki did as he was told. He worked through simple spells with his magic. He would write down the spell, and what the proper outcome should be. Then he would cast it. After casting it, he would write down everything he did movement by movement, word for word, and the outcome it actually had. By the time he went to bed that night, he had a whole journal full of spells he had tried and their outcomes. He lay on his fern bed looking up at the top of his tent. “Please let this clan leader be able to help,” he whispered in a prayer to the creators, before rolling over and falling asleep.