15 years ago, I came to this place, the quiet village of Darfald. I was a young mage, full of hopes and dreams. I had traveled for so long and was relieved to find a place to settle down and practice my craft. In the early years, that practice was slow: the village was a tight-knit community who remained wary of me and preferred their local doctor than the healing of a magic-user. Understandable, but deflating. Finally, my chance came. The doctor was out of town visiting family and a young boy, Marco, had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. The family was in a panic, and the next nearest medical assistance was more than a quarter day by horse. The family came, reluctantly I imagine, to me. It was not a profoundly serious break, and my mending reset the bone. Marco only required a sling to rest his arm for a few days before he was back to climbing trees.

As you can imagine, my list of clientele increased dramatically nearly overnight. By the time the poor town doctor had returned from his trip, he was practically patientless. Some of the folks still visited him with minor sniffles to keep him occupied, and others maintained their belief that they did not need the healing power of magic, but preferred “the old fashioned way”. I was not bothered by this, my only desire was to help those who may seek me out. As time moved on, I continued to hone and perfect my skills. Within the breadth of the first year, I had advanced from broken bones and fevers to helping families safely deliver their babies and bring loved ones back from the brink of the most serious illnesses.

It’s almost funny, as I think on it now, to reflect on my magic and the upbringing that led me to this moment. My whole family, grandparents, parents, siblings and cousins had gifts for the blood. Not all of the gifts were the same, mind you. Some could control the blood, make it clot with a snap and a spoken word, or spill uncontrollably if they were so inclined. Others could take their own blood, or that of willing donors, to make tinctures and potions of a variety of uses. But my powers were not tied to blood. I could heal and mend and restore, but any part of the body, not specifically of or to blood. Discovering this, I felt myself as almost an outcast of my family. And while none of them openly shared the sentiment, or prompted me to feel such a way, I still felt as though I should leave. That I should learn what my own gift meant and leave the blood to the blood mages.

Only now, after 15 years, do I realize that my power is in the blood. Every bone I healed, every cold I cured, it all came from the blood. Or, at least, some latent property of the blood. But once that property was activated, it set something off in the body. Something not right. And those who were my regular clients seemed to be impacted the most. Marco, my first and most loyal patient, died in my arms at 23. Too far gone was he that even if my magic wasn’t what was killing him, it would not have saved him. A brain bleed, I should think. Soon after, others began to pass. Blood clots, weakness, lungs wasting away under the stress of taking a shallow breath. Death swept the village. Only those who had relied entirely on the doctor survived. And they blamed me. Of course they did and they had every right to do so. But I tried and I tried to explain that all I ever wanted to do was help. Never knowing that all I did was hurt. And now is the time to pay the price. I watch as the villagers I’ve spoken to over the last fifteen years descend upon my door. I echo their chants in my own mind “Blood for blood. Blood for blood”