Sitting on top of a hill, was a small figure. At first, many thought it was a statue for lack of movement. But short up and down movement of its head, dispelled that possibility. In fact, when this figure finally rose and went down to the village of Bransten at the bottom of said hill, it became apparent that it was a young feline humanoid. It had on a pair of brown, leather trousers and a green shirt with a white vest worn over it.
The villagers tried their best not to stare at this creature, but as its tiger fur pattern became obvious, and the book strapped to its side glowed an eerie yellow, they couldn’t help it.
One of the villagers though, a young canine in blacksmith attire, stepped towards the strange feline figure and asked without further caution: “What are you”?
The feline figure snickered. “You mean, you don’t know”?
The young canine shook his head.
“Amazing,” the feline figure roared, “a dog who doesn’t know my name! I must know yours”.
Again, the young canine shook his head.
“Fine then,” the feline figure scoffed, “I am Atros, slayer of the goblin king of the north”.
The young canine gasped and looked quickly towards the six village guardsmen who’d now gathered around Atros, ready for any unpleasant surprises.
“Judging by that reaction, I’d say you do know my name,” Atros started, “curious then, that your guards insist on hostility”.
“Lay down the book, traitor!” the guard in front of him commanded, “Lay it down, now!”
Atros sighed deeply, then plainly unhooked it from his belt for it to fall to the cobblestone street beneath him.
“Really, gentlemen,” he started, “this is highly unnecessary.”
One of the guards quickly scooped up the book and had it put far away from them all.
“We know what that book is to you, mage,” another guard spat, “and we will tolerate no such weapons on a stranger.”
Atros laughed loudly at this comment and nearly split the back of his vest doing so.
“Weapon,” he giggled, “preposterous, it’s hardly even a real book.”
From behind him, a clearly insulted voice sounded: “Don’t lie to us, mage!”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of it,” Atros said with a straight face, “it’s just that it really only glows for show.”
The guardsmen raised their pikes to throat-level in alarm and looked at Atros as if he’d said the sky was red. Which it had been, to be honest, when the arch mage of Bransten had tried to make it rain during the long drought , nearly fifteen years ago. Then again, it hadn’t been entirely without red in the earliest and latest hours of a common day.
But Atros remained calm, smiled and raised his right hand, to halt the guardsmen’s advance.
“My lords, I would be most grateful if you would allow me to demonstrate my non-mage state.”
The guards looked at each other and broke into laughter, nodding as they did.
“Right,” the guard in front of him laughed, “that’s a good one, mage. You just try that then.”
Atros bowed graciously, moved his hand over the guard’s pike and watched, quite smugly as the steel tip of the guard’s pike folded and curled in on itself to form a gigantic spoon.
“That proves it,” the guard said, “you are a mage.”
Atros shook his head. “No sir,” he stated calmly, “it proves, contrary to your beliefs, that I am in fact a sorcerer. My magic is innate, not studied.”
The guards, still sceptical, kept their weapons in place as the –now spoon wielding- guard moved in to arrest Atros.
Disappointed at the whole thing, Atros sighed and held out his hands. “Fine then, if you must”.
“You’re still a magic user,” the arresting guard commented, as he clapped Atros in irons.
Atros simply nodded and let the guard lead him into holding where, as was the custom, he would wait for the arch mage. A person he would have expected to show up soon, had he not known about the whole rain summoning fiasco which occurred nearly fifteen years ago. This time however, Atros pretty much expected he’d be there for a good week or two before that odd nit witted mage showed.
Mere minutes later, he was proven wrong, as the arch mage’s escorts seeped into the holding room, followed by a young and very beautiful female lynx dressed in elegant silver robes made from common fabrics.
“You must be the messenger,” Atros yawned, “how quaint”.
The female lynx never so much as blinked and said matter-of-factly: “Yes. Though first and foremost, I am the arch mage of Bransten”.
Atros was shocked and unable to hide it should his life depend on it.
“What is your name, sorcerer?” she continued.
“Atros,” he said, still shocked by her age.
“Good then, Atros,” she sighed, “you will address me as Grand Magus Syrah”.
Atros nodded and looked at her, waiting for her verdict. To which she simply stated: “No. I will not have your head removed for unauthorised use of magic. That would win me nothing.”
“However, I am quite fascinated by your kind. So I propose this: you will be brought to my estate”.
Atros looked at her with renewed hope of freedom and quiet glee when she suddenly added: “Oh, don’t think it’ll be cosy. I fully intend to study you, much like one would study wildlife”.
Atros’ heart sank. Would she really lock him in a cage and treat him like that? Or was she putting on a show to put him in his place, intending instead to ask him questions until his brain asked for pause?
His mind raced as he weighed the options which he solemnly believed to be torture either way, looking for the most likely outcome. Finally he settled on the fact that he believed it was more than unfair for harmless spoon making.

The four wolves that made up her entourage, grabbed Atros by the arms and dragged him outside to a carriage roughly the size of a small barn, comprised of two compartments.
At once, Syrah stood before them. "Put him in the back!" she snapped.
One of the wolves strained his face with worry. "But, Grand Magus, are you sure?"
"Of course I am." she mocked, "This one won't be going anywhere".
"Of course, Grand Magus." the wolf yelped, shoving Atros toward, and finally into the carriage.

Atros, who had been hoping to teleport out along their journey, felt as if he had been punched in the gut the second he stepped inside.
"Anti-magic," he hissed, "I should have known."
"Binding magic, actually." Syrah beamed proudly, "A souvenir of my time in the Arcanus Royal. Do you like it?"
Atros didn't answer but his anger was obvious, leaving Syrah to slink comfortably back into her seat.

As they traveled, Syrah played with illusory birds and flowers, clearly uninterested in the angered grunts and stomping coming from behind her.
At least, until she realised they were arriving at her estate. Suddenly and quite eagerly, she leapt from the carriage clapping.
"Get him out!" she barked, an evil glint in her eye, "I've waited quite long enough for this."
Inside the carriage, Atros sighed and looked one last time at his enchanted holding before stepping out to what he was sure would be his death.
"There you are!" Syrah yelled excitedly, "Singed slugs, you look tired! Let's fix that."
Atros looked at her grinning face in horror as a swift fireball hurtled toward him.
He only ducked just in time to hear Syrah's proud laugh.
"Yes!" she grinned, "excellent recovery! You must be ready for more!"
Atros shook his head, grasping his stomach with one paw and holding his other out toward her.
"Nonesense!" Syrah hissed, "Here!"
Atros, sad for his condition, waited for the impact of yet another spell. But to his surprise, nothing hit.
He opened his eyse, slightly and looked up with careful relief when that too was squashed by the sight of an enormous metal construct.
"Dispell it!" Syrah encouraged suddenly, "Rather before he kills you!"
Atros looked at the creature and felt his fatigue grow as he struggled to concentrate when suddenly a giant fist slammed into him and sent him sliding several feet over the ground.
Enfuriated, Atros teleported to the creatures side crying out and seemingly doing nothing else until, after a while, a crack came forth from the creature's chest after which it compressed itself into a ball in an instant.
"Perfect!" Syrah shouted with obvious glee, "This was more than worth the wait!"
Atros stared at her irritably, and for a second seriously considered directing his magic at her, though he wasn't sure that would have the devestating impact he hoped for.
"This is just the start!" Syrah yelled, beckoning Atros to come over to her. "I'm looking forward to see what else you can do with your 'innate' magic!"