Examining the mask on the corpse, Crowlin gave it an experimental tug. The mask hung tight, sealed to the dead man’s face; straightening, Crowlin folded his arms and perused the mask.
“I’ve heard tell from the locals that you’re a Druid.” the mage knight supervising Crowlin said, breaking the silence.
“Druid by descent? Yes. Druid by training? No. I was only raised by the Druids for the first third of my life.” Crowlin answered, turning the corpse’s head sideways. There was no seam between the mask and the corpse’s face.
“Oh, so you were a runaway.” the mage knight assumed.
“Quite contrary. I loved it in my village. Knights - more like savages dressed in armor, they were - from a neighboring region attacked our village without provocation. My parents, peaceful Druids like every other Druid in our village, were killed, along with dozens of others. It was then that I ran - not from my own people, but from the swords of foreigners. I survived for a few weeks in the wilderness, using the little magic I had learned by the age of seven. I eventually wandered into Aylodae, and when I was found, it was decided that my Druid heritage would make me a good mage, possibly even a mage knight. That was how I came to the Instructory.”