From the bright, snow-covered wilderness comes a gray silhouette, painstakingly braving the howling winds and making its way from the winter-white hills of Zohnegard up the monastery’s stairs, then past open gates into its front yard and finally approaching the main building, the final steps in this young man’s toughest journey left as a fleeting testament to melt under the sun or be swept away from the stone yard tiles.
His unsteady walk betraying signs of poor physical condition, he stumbles approaching the heavy wooden doors, leaning on them and using his weight to aid what feeble strength he can muster in the struggle to move their thick frames, finally managing to create a slight gap through which he slips, and never bothers to unmake.
The young man briefly examines the place he just entered, finally being able to set eyes on his prize across the hall that is to be his final obstacle. He pays no attention to the people there or anything else for that matter, not the incense in the air or the impressive architecture, even the smells of food and ale are irrelevant to him, and in return he too is ignored, being left alone to prove, step after step, the triumph of a determined mind over a ruined body.
After forcing past his limits the young man has grown numb to the sensations, his hunger and thirst, his pain and cold, even his exhaustion, at this point his tunnel vision is such that he truly feels nothing anymore, his conscience barely present, having given way to sheer focus and the most basic survival instinct, his attention resting entirely on the altar he must reach, the table, and the open tome on it, that will allow him to complete his current quest.
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He hobbles down the aisle and takes his place in front of a plain-faced monk dressed in robes of thick cloth, all of them in vibrant tones of red, with pitch black hair arranged in a strange, intricate braid that runs down resting on his chest and sitting down on a worn out wooden chair the monk pays his undivided attention to a booklet on his lap.
“Name, school, place and date of departure”, the odd man instructs with indifference, pointing at the tome lying on the altar with his index finger while his eyes remain engaged reading, the monk then moves his finger to a small wooden box beside it.
“Letter of sponsorship, if you have one”, he says, that very same finger then briefly touches the monk's tongue before turning a page on his lap.
The half-dead young man barely understands it, but barely is enough, he places both hands on the table to support his weight while he sets himself, making every effort to avoid crumbling down like a house of cards, his blurred vision locates the designated quill that he manages to capture with a shaking hand, he steadies his breath and takes a couple of seconds and with a slow, deliberate gesture places the ink-soaked point on the parchment, “ARESIAN” he writes in ugly letters, leaving what could easily be mistaken for a child's calligraphy.
He pauses, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, in an attempt to fight his deteriorating vision, for a moment he fails to distinguish even his own hands in front of his eyes and in the next one, there is only darkness.