Son of a slave

Immediately turning his attention away from the reverberating sounds of impact, Tramon fell to one knee, supported himself by planting the point of his sword on the soot-covered pavement, and then tried to approach Alistar. Indignant understanding found its way onto his face as he seemed to accept the fact that he could no longer move.

"Master!"

The swordsman’s aura surrounding Tramon’s scarred, battered body abruptly flickered like a candle’s failing flame before it disappeared altogether, blood spilling from his various wounds as soon as the energy dissipated.

Alistar ran over and cast a basic mending spell on Tramon’s arm, limited to normal magic for whatever reason. At least, he thought anxiously, his energies were slowly returning to him.

Tramon pushed him away. "Go home. Your friends are heading there." He took a moment to catch his breath. "Your Uncle should be there too." Hearing an enraged scream from up ahead, his face paled. "This guy’s lost his mind. He won’t stop until he’s dead." Complaining more to himself than anything, he added in a low, grumbling voice, "Cursed thing. What the hell’s up with those flames? They’re not normal."

Alistar could sense the Inverted man stirring beneath a distant pile of rubble, his body still in one piece after receiving Tramon’s vicious barrage head on. When just one of Tramon’s strikes could cut the roof clean from a two-storey building, just how strong did a person’s body have to be in order to emerge unscathed after receiving such an attack?

"Master. What’s going on? Why...why is this happening?"

"How should I know?" the man spat. "Go on home and wait for the delegation to arrive. They should have enough people to deal with this—whatever he is."

Alistar’s expression darkened. "I think they’re the ones that set him upon the town."