Now that was a question he had heard far too often. The story used to catch in his throat every time he told it, but after years, it had stopped being a sad memory, and had become simply a melancholy statement. "Well, Major Kilandre, several years ago, I lived in a small, close knit community. I had used my powers occasionally, but no one had said anything. Then came the day that the Grand Duke was slain. My neighbors and friends became suddenly hostile, and turned their backs on me. They believed that just because some mage went out and killed the Duke, that all mages were inherently evil. That alone was troubling enough, but then the new duke took power, and established these mage camps in the north. The people I had lived with for dozens of years betrayed me to the Mordecai, and I was take from my home and herded north. I was put in a camp with three hundred other mages. It was pure torture. Lashings were daily, and we were all malnourished from a lack of food and clean water. And if you ever spoke out of line, you'd be lucky to only have a limb or two broken. I spent six years in this camp until we were liberated by a group of mages who caught the Mordecai whilst they were sleeping with a barrage of well placed long distance bolts of magic. When we were set free, only fifteen us remained."
He finished his story and looked at the ground with a somber look, and softly said, "I'm sorry that your steed died, that was not my intention."
