Chapter 1 - The Sea

A young scholar walked upon the shores of Hir, a beach located just south of the city limits. He had removed his boots hours ago, and hand been wading through the shallow tide of the sea; this place was an excellent conduit for his magic. With long and fluid motions the adept mage plucked ancient runes from thin air, arcane symbols and wisp of energy forming around his right arm; this was mana. Suddenly a pillar of water began to rise, as measured as his motions and completely at his command. It danced before him, now standing at almost ten feet tall; water magic was his specialty, his only school of practice.

 
The schools of magic varied, primarily delegated into the popular schools of thought; developed by the magi of ancient times. 
 
The first was Earth, as it shaped the mountains and the plains, and is known as the magic that broke mankind’s bondage. It requires control, demands order; this makes it highly attractive to knights and other protectors.
 
The second was Wind, a free-flowing magic that was difficult to master; only a select few mages could boast that they could shape the wind to their command. The air was also associated with breath, or life, and is used in numerous healing spells. 
 
The third, Water, was less used than the others by mankind. Water had a will of its own, as if you had to gain its trust before manipulating it. Some believed that the ocean was home to a great deal of energy, a primordial tuning fork of energy.
 
The last was Fire, dangerous and corruptive, but seductive to the uninitiated. It took a great deal of power to control, many mages literally burning out before reaching their prime. 
 
When combined, these schools of magic created great spells of power. One school alone was not enough; many mages learning the basis of several arts before ever becoming full fledged sorcerers. That said, nearly everyone was in tune with mana, allowing them to access at least the most basic levels of elemental manipulation. Water was Tyril’s, he had dedicated his life to it. This ocean was his home away from home, bringing him serenity and peace. He and the gentle waters had an unspoken pact, granting him access to its waves if he gave his respect. The young man rolled up his sleeves and reached into the sea, elbow deep in the briny waters. In response, the tendril before him split into three, coiling around one another into a tight bond. To separate yet bind them took a great deal of strength; perhaps he’d have been full of himself, if he was able to master of magics such as he’d done with water. By now the formation was a small spire, shea shells and tiny crabs caught in the current that it generated.
 
Something caught his eye, pulled by the water’s current; something metallic. 
 
He released his grip, the mana around his arms dissipating; the tower slowly sunk back into the sea. He drudged forth, mesmerized by the silver object floating towards him. There was magic in it, whatever it was, Tyril could feel the power flowing through it from where he stood. It was an axe head, the wooden handle still maintained and secured. This was an odd weapon, as to be quite honest, weapons were quite odd; as most humans used magic for physical confrontation. Iron or steel weapons were primarily used by cutthroats and assassins, with no reputable citizen ever wielding one. Yet this one was different, its appearance led one to believe it was silver, but it obviously wasn’t. Something was off. The scholar reached down, his hand now quivering as it approached the hilt. As he gripped it he realized that this was no normal axe, as even with all the strength of his right arm he could not bring himself to move it. He grunted in dismay, this would not do; with his left hand he constructed more runes. Water began to coil around right arm, constricting and assisting him in his efforts, bolstering his strength tenfold. It did nothing, and as his magic gave out he collapsed backwards into the shallow water. 
 
What was this?
 
Something rustled behind him, it was loud, roughly thirty meters away behind the tree line. Rustling grew into crashing, Tyril could hear branches and saplings snapping rapidly. The source of the sound emerged, a Grau, truly fearsome beasts that dwelled the coast; he had only heard of them in legends. The popular belief was that they were the abominable offspring of a demon and mortal witch/wizard. Most of the time the offspring was a Tiefling or Cambion, a more humanoid hybrid between the two. Rarely, it was a Grau.
 
It hulked forward, standing at nearly eleven feet tall. It was an imposing creature to say the least, grey leathery skin covering its uncloaked body. It had the arms of sycamore trees; perhaps that was an exaggeration, but it was close enough. They were abominations to the Circle of Magi, creatures to be destroyed on sight. It bellowed as it erupted from the forest, angered by some unknown force.  It spotted him.
 
“Shit”.
 
Tyril quickly constructed warding runes, water rising from the ocean to protect his body; it bound itself to his body, yet still allowing him to breath. He readied himself to prepare a more offensive spell, but the beast had closed the gap between them; it swung a mighty blow.
 
The beast’s fist connected, shattering the barrier and something else within. The scholar’s confidence quickly evaporated. This wasn’t good. He was flung into the sea, his body battered by a single blow. 
 
It roared again, flexing its tremendous muscles with belligerence and pride. Such beast was moderately intelligent, granting them sadistic and calculated thoughts. Tyril was floating in the sea. His light grey garments drenched, yet already stained with blood. Something was jutting out of him, fractured and twisted. He could see the axe again, perhaps it be the last thing he saw before he perished. What a way to die, he thought, out as sea… in his home.
 
The axe erupted from the water, flying above the its surface. His eyes jolted open, what had just happened?
 
He could hear the distorted screams of the beast… crashing… blood… his consciousness abandoned him. 
When he awoke he was on the shore, he shot up from the sand gasping for air. His eyes scanned his surroundings franticly, as the beast could still be about. There it was, not twenty feet away, but slain. Its decapitated body slumped into the sand, a pool of thick dark blood bubbling from its wound. Tyril quickly attempted to construct another warding rune, but his body was exhausted, it would be of no use.
 
“You live”. The voice was clear, resounding; it sounded entirely uncaring. 
 
Tyril spun his head to the left, where the voice had come from, there was a figure resting against a boulder. A man. He squinted attempting to get a better look of his possible savior. The enigmatic stranger turned, hoisting the mysterious and now bloodied axe with one hand; how? He grinned with his mouth closed, yellow eyes humming with power. His clothes were strange, perhaps from a neighboring kingdom?
 
Tyril was still choking out water, “W-who are you”?
 
~
 
“What”! The young scholar shouted now standing, his voice echoed across the silent shores. It was midday. 
 
Impossible, this man could not be the World Serpent. The stranger was sitting now, staring out onto the ocean; the axe on his lap. It made some sense, as his eyes were quite reptilian, but that was not enough. 
 
“You’re supposed to be colossal! Jormangandr is a great beast, an ancient titan, why would he need an axe”? The young magus was stunned, trying to piece together the information, but only in concordance with his beliefs. 
 
The Serpent grinned, “You truly believe that men crafted the first axes and blades? What do your scholars teach you”? He spoke casually but never shifted his vision from the sea, it was a look of longing.
 
“I am happy, overjoyed actually”, he didn’t appear to be, “So I’ll tell you a story, as long as you promise to really listen”. Jormangandr looked at the young man, his expression blank and uneasy. He was not a man of necessarily imposing stature, but something emanated from him; a dark and primal energy. 
 
“I’ll listen”.