Underneath the silken cloak of the midnight sky, where the nodding sunflowers bow to the silhouettes of majestic mountains, lives the old wizard named Warturg. The labyrinth of wrinkles gracing his face writes the epic tale of his many years, lining a chronicle more significant than any story inked in vanishing papyrus. His beard, a cascade of ivory waves, sparkles with celestial enchantment and twinkles like the constellations that stretch out in the endless cosmos above.
In the shelter of his youth, Warturg was neither an ordinary boy nor a prophesied hero destined to conquer the monstrous serpent or to retrieve the golden fleece of tales spun by bards in echoing taverns. He was born and raised in the fringe village of Selda, where serenity bloomed amongst rows of marigold and lavender. Blessed with an insatiable curiosity and the shadow of wisdom, his eyes drank the world's vastness and complexities, spurring his steps to roam the vastness of the encircling mountains.
The arcane sanctity engulfing the hills whispered ancient riddles to young Warturg, awakening the dormant magic within. Under the guidance of the hill spirits, the boy gradually transformed into an acquaintance of celestial secrets, creating a bond between himself and the forest. His mundane-born heart soon throbbed with the earth's rhythm, marking his journey of evolving from a villager to a revered shaman.
Currently, Warturg serves as the village's guide and protector. He harnesses the dew's whispers, the sun's sigh, and the wind's soliloquy to foretell the future and conjure protective enchantments around Selda. He transcends the sphere of ordinary men, but his essence remains ever-human, ever-vulnerable.
Amongst Warturg's diverse companions are the jolly spirits of the old forest, the chattering brooks, and the shadows of the mountains. Yet, his most valuable ally is his daughter, Mistra. This young maiden, kissed by moonlight and graced with beauty that melts the fiercest winters, chooses to follow in her father's mystical footsteps. She is the heir to Warturg's wisdom, the evidence of his legacy—a shimmering beacon that illuminates endlessly in the darkest pits of his fear.
Warturg fears not the croaking death or the fatal venom of the mythical viper. But the thought of Mistra weighed down by the responsibility of his legacy before she sees her own path, haunts his dreams, stinging sharper than the bitterly cold winds of Selda.
Warturg’s life credo is simple: he views magic not as a means to enviable power, but as a bond that connects him with the universe's rhythm. His philosophies serve as an undercurrent to his morality, as he uses his abilities to heal, help, and protect but never to harm or manipulate. He envisioned a perfect balance—of taking what is necessary and giving back more.
Warturg's morality, however, is put to test when a crime shakes the fabric of Selda’s serenity. A hooded outsider is accused of stealing the village’s sacred relic. The easy path would involve using his powers to punish the sinner. But Warturg, a believer in justice and redemption, vies for unveiling the truth over delivering hasty judgment.
The wizard carries mannerisms that echo profundity and evoke respect. His patient silences before he answers, the ceaseless stroke of his bearded chin, the way his eyes seem to look beyond what's apparent—each aspect unravels the enigma that is Warturg. The twinkle lingering in his gaze traces the constellations of his ancient lore, inviting those around him into a world uniquely his—for in each thread of magic, every step he takes, Warturg's life redefines the boundaries of a fantasy beyond imagination.