September 2000, Tennessee

Jake and a dozen other University of Georgia students went on a three day camping/river-rafting trip in the Tennessee mountains. After the typical meatmarket politics involved with such a thing, they were involuntarily spirited away into the faerie Hedge. There, they were hunted down and picked off by vaguely humanoid wolves as well as their beastmaster known as the “Huntsman.” All but six of the mortals survived, and then only by merit of determination and combat. The Huntsman took the survivors, dispensing them to various fae as appropriate.

Jake was given to a fae known as “Spiritstorm,” who resembled a powerfully built Native American with intensive tribal tattoos and an obvious physical hybridization with a bird of prey. Blue, indigo, and white feathers grew from Spiritstorm's scalp, back, and arms, resembling a man wearing a living thunderbird costume.

Spiritstorm spoke to Jake of the mighty rainclouds, of the crashing lightning, and of the thunder's fury. He sought to impress upon Jake that there is no shame, no reluctance, and no uncertainty in a thunderstorm; as of force of nature, the storm is what it is and nothing else. The world respects the thunderstorm for what it contributes and for its power. The fae informed Jake that he would learn to embrace the ways of the storm, for it was already in his nature and nature cannot be denied.

The young mortal needed little other persuasion. He wholeheartedly embraced the existence which was being offered to him…. which would have been forced upon him even if he did resist.

There is no way to tell how long Jake remained under Spiritstorm's wing, slowly becoming more and more like his master as the eternity passed. Jake would spend every conscious moment he could doing nothing but crashing between obstacles, charged with the very lightning that had awoken within his body. Often he would spend entire days (if such a thing had any meaning) in motion, scorching anything that presented itself as a target. Not so much out of spite, but eventually out of necessity; he could imagine doing no other thing than attacking whatever presented itself to him. Trees, rocks, and the very ground beneath his feet all seemed to him to be made for no other reason than for him to destroy it.

Spiritstorm, seeing the new levinquick's progress, was pleased and eventually offered the young apprentice the chance to earn a new name. All he need do is go into the wild and attack the first living creature he saw. Kill that creature without hesitation, eat its heart to take its power, and then return to Spiritstorm to declare the new name. Jake, full of perpetual energy and wrath, immediately set off to accomplish his task.

Returning to the Thorns, Jake came across a mighty eagle roosting in the higher foliage. As big as a man, the eagle's sharp eyes spotted Jake's flickering presence rushing up towards it. Rather than fleeing, the eagle swooped down and clawed at the young man repeatedly, all the while suffering minor shocks as the very air around Jake crackled with power. Both combatants fought long and painfully, each taking multiple wounds from the other.

Jake emerged victorious, but only barely. He lost an eye, most of an ear, and had several deep gouges across his chest and back. Bleeding profusely but still full of rage, he ripped open the carass of the giant eagle and pulled the heart of the fallen raptor out with his bare hands. Plunging his teeth into the bloody muscle, he devoured it hungrily. It took a moment, but he soon realized that the corpse that lay before him was no longer that of a large bird – it was that of another changeling. A Beast, apparently, who had been imbued with the spirit of Eagle.

Jake's perpetual anger drained away like the blood he had lost; he had just killed another human, unprovoked, and defiled the body greedily. The savage act brought back memories of the method he was taken by wolves that eternity ago, and the indignation… the horror… of that violation of freedom and life brought the young elemental to his knees with regret. For the first time since he could remember, Jacob wept.

Spiritstorm was once again pleased when his young pupil returned, bloodied but victorious, with a half-eaten heart still clutched in his hands. Laughter like the peal of thunder across the plains issued from the fae, and as he gestured the changeling's wounds healed over. “Well done, little thunderbird. Now tell me of the new name you have earned this day.”

Jake threw the heart at his mentor's feet with open contempt. “I take the name I once used in the mortal world,” he said, knowing full well that mentioning his previous life would anger Spiritstorm. “I take the name Azralon, who was a legendary hero to his even more fictitious people. Azralon was a proud warrior who wielded the power of lightning to smite his foes.”

Energy crackled around the changeling's body as he let his fury against his master show. “…. And you, Spiritstorm, are my foe. My only regret is that I had forgotten that.” With that, Azralon lunged at the fae.

Spiritstorm's rage exceeded Azralon's, as did his skills. Catching his rebellious recruit by the neck in mid-lunge, the fae pulled the young elemental close and whispered harshly into his face: “Your wrath does you credit, thunderling. But you also forget your place.”

Azralon replied with nothing more than a strangled sneer, his hardened eyes staring at Spiritstorm's without wavering. It was clear that there would be no reconciliation. Azralon knew this meant his death.

“You are no longer a force of nature, small fool,” growled Spiritstorm, lifting Azralon high with his feathered arm. “Your heart is once again that of a weak mortal, frail and uncertain. I have no use for you, and I discard you to the Thorns.” With that, a mighty heave and gust of wind sent Azralon sailing through the air, deep into the briars. His landing ripped into him with incredible cruelty, barbs pulling at his recently-regrown flesh and wounding him gravely.

Azralon had ventured through the Thorns before, though, he remembered. He knew how to cut a path through it safely. He knew he must not give in to his injuries if he was going to live; Spiritstorm would not idly toss him aside and forget his insubordination. Azralon knew that he would be hunted once again, perhaps by another favored recruit. Perhaps Azralon's heart was already being chosen as the next to be eaten.

He had to make his way back through the Hedge. He had to go home. He had to survive.

He had to make sure that no one was ever taken by the fae ever again.