The Wizard in Green
Posted: Tue Jul 14, 2009 2:55 pm
The great bell resonated through the high city streets, echoing in strange patterns as the sound bounced off of the silver spires and the high stone walls of the city, signifying the passing of the darkest time of the night. As the pre-dawn gray crept into the city like a cat stalking its prey, the wizard in green continued his work. Tap… tap… tap… sounded the fine chisel, every strike defining a greater part of the final rune of power. As the rune took shape, it joined the others circumscribing the fine platinum and silver girdle, as if a belt made for a mermaid queen. The ancient symbols once used so carelessly by dragons and Netherese wizards, when joined in a more modern arrangement, would adequately serve to focus the Art. This was to be his last work for this period in his life, for the man was changing, much as a caterpillar metamorphoses within the cocoon, so did the wizard change within his lab, within his mind, and within his heart.
The gods had been kind to him, perhaps ashamedly so. Once purely an academic interest, the man had found a solace within the will of the Gods. Daily he now prayed to them… the Lady of Mysteries had always been there, lending her hand to his efforts, allowing him to touch the divine spark of Gods Magic… he was a vessel for her work. The Dawn Bringer, that he might bring a new start to those in need, warm the hearts of those turned to ice and darkness… and bring his Light and blessing to the woman whom so desperately needed it. The Merchant’s Friend, that she might bring the commerce and fortune so needed of any business venture. The Wonderbringer… whom so often leant his inspiration to greater works of power. The man reflected once again upon the difficulty of his introspection, in trying to use the intellect the Gods had given him for the pursuit of his understanding… surely the man must use what the gods had… it was no easy task, and perhaps even a foolish one… but an attempt at true understanding, even through the futility of logic in this task, brought him closer to the divine. Sometimes, to try was enough to earn peace, for a while.
A cocoon. The man paused in his work to reflect… perhaps an apt metaphor. What time not taken by the Art and the Craft, was taken by farming and reading, writing and thinking. The man could feel a palpable and weighty presence growing in his mind… so much change had been wrought in so little time. So many ideas had come in the past few moons that even this man found it a task to catalogue them, to understand, to digest the thoughts that flowed like a river of newly melted snow pouring from the northern mountains in spring. He could feel it, the new power, quietly growing… like the charge in the wind just before a bolt of lightning. He worked late into each night to capture his thoughts, his ideas, new recipes, new spells, only with greatest effort matching the flow of the tide… soon the cocoon must burst asunder, and let free a new flight into the gods’ creation. Soon the man would know the fourth circle of power.
And what to better match his enemies? But… what enemies? The man could see no immediate obstacles, but like a perilous and swiftly moving river, surely dark rocks waited not far beneath the turbid surface, to crush the innocent, the unwary, the unlucky. The depths must be plumbed, the river, while never ending, mapped and sounded, to prevent for a time the inexorable march of the forces of darkness. In dreams the man often remembered the voices of those once held so dear… Ashley. Nathan. Benjamin. The sisters Shannon… Once the dreams brought only cold sweat and an awakening on the edge of another scream, but now the children had taken the form of a reminder of that which must be done. Through time and contemplation, working the soil, he had learned again, but anew, the beauty of Transmutation. Sorrow to Anger. Anger to Will. Will to Action. Action to Change. Change to Good. No alchemist had ever worked harder at his task, nor been rewarded with a resolve any greater than the wizard in green.
Soon it would be time. With great power comes great responsibility. The man was no longer such a fool as to believe himself of any great importance… but even as ants move mountains one grain at a time, so would the man work to accomplish his goals.
First the ideal, then the practical, so must it be done. Remember the words of Jonas, as well as his fate… perhaps his book is not yet wholly written.
Altruism. The placing of others before one’s self.
Charity. For the world is possessed of a great need.
Mercy. For those whom do not deserve it.
Forgiveness. The belief that others can change.
Hope. The heart and essence of good.
Redemption. May it yet come to those willing.
The path, while filled with pitfalls and easy to lose, is easy enough to see for the next little while. And then? His formal scholastic studies had not progressed in moons. The business had begun to feel an obligation, no longer a means to an end. The call of the Citadel of Strategic Militancy to the South was daily harder to resist, for its knowledge was so alien, so practical, so essential, so far from his typical abstraction, he knew he must soon journey there to learn the ways of war… for soon was the time. As Garlus had taught, so must the blade be tempered in the forge, and then quenched to bring strength and resilience. The gods had given him a blade within his mind… and he must hone it for the tasks that would need to be done.
The man once again raised his head to notice that Lathander had yet again brought his light to the world. He stood, his tall, thin frame creaking in new places from overuse and little sleep, as if one of much greater years was trapped inside. He stretched, flexing his slight but whip-like muscles… tonight’s job must be finished before he could rest. He brushed his oily, dark hair from his eyes, and rubbed his face… the boyish beard had grown thicker, more luxuriant, in his inattention to his own corporeal form. Catching his appearance in the mirror, the man recoiled, then laughed softly, finally recognizing the brilliant blue eyes as his own. He returned to his work.
He relit the alcohol burner, and adjusted its flame to a white hot jet. Checking the vise still held his work, and bringing the spool of wire close, he carefully softened the platinum alloy, and using the tiny adamantine hammer, carefully finished tapping the inlay into place within the rune. As the wire flowed into its place, the wizard in green completed the incantations required by the Lady of Mysteries. He could feel the tangible life force ebbing from his body, as it always did… the Life Sacrifice required to bind the magic permanently into the runes. The rune glowed briefly with an piercing otherworldly light, and slowly faded to the hue it would forever remain: a glittering, pulsing whitish silver, shot with streaks of reddish fire.
Through his exhaustion and weakness, the man carefully inspected his work, and muttered a prayer to the gods for the completion of this morning’s task. He carefully wrapped the belt around his trim frame, feeling the intoxicating power of a surge of new strength and vitality heretofore unknown. Grasping the heavy ironwood bench, the wizard in green lifted it carefully from the ground, and then slowly returned it to its place. It had worked. The lady, his client, would be most pleased. He prayed the gods that such would help to keep her safe, that she might in time remember Jonas’ words, and begin to heal the wounds that so clearly poisoned her soul.
Praise the Weave, and the Lady whom makes it possible. The man fell into his bed without removing his clothes, and allowed the void of exhausted sleep to take him.
The gods had been kind to him, perhaps ashamedly so. Once purely an academic interest, the man had found a solace within the will of the Gods. Daily he now prayed to them… the Lady of Mysteries had always been there, lending her hand to his efforts, allowing him to touch the divine spark of Gods Magic… he was a vessel for her work. The Dawn Bringer, that he might bring a new start to those in need, warm the hearts of those turned to ice and darkness… and bring his Light and blessing to the woman whom so desperately needed it. The Merchant’s Friend, that she might bring the commerce and fortune so needed of any business venture. The Wonderbringer… whom so often leant his inspiration to greater works of power. The man reflected once again upon the difficulty of his introspection, in trying to use the intellect the Gods had given him for the pursuit of his understanding… surely the man must use what the gods had… it was no easy task, and perhaps even a foolish one… but an attempt at true understanding, even through the futility of logic in this task, brought him closer to the divine. Sometimes, to try was enough to earn peace, for a while.
A cocoon. The man paused in his work to reflect… perhaps an apt metaphor. What time not taken by the Art and the Craft, was taken by farming and reading, writing and thinking. The man could feel a palpable and weighty presence growing in his mind… so much change had been wrought in so little time. So many ideas had come in the past few moons that even this man found it a task to catalogue them, to understand, to digest the thoughts that flowed like a river of newly melted snow pouring from the northern mountains in spring. He could feel it, the new power, quietly growing… like the charge in the wind just before a bolt of lightning. He worked late into each night to capture his thoughts, his ideas, new recipes, new spells, only with greatest effort matching the flow of the tide… soon the cocoon must burst asunder, and let free a new flight into the gods’ creation. Soon the man would know the fourth circle of power.
And what to better match his enemies? But… what enemies? The man could see no immediate obstacles, but like a perilous and swiftly moving river, surely dark rocks waited not far beneath the turbid surface, to crush the innocent, the unwary, the unlucky. The depths must be plumbed, the river, while never ending, mapped and sounded, to prevent for a time the inexorable march of the forces of darkness. In dreams the man often remembered the voices of those once held so dear… Ashley. Nathan. Benjamin. The sisters Shannon… Once the dreams brought only cold sweat and an awakening on the edge of another scream, but now the children had taken the form of a reminder of that which must be done. Through time and contemplation, working the soil, he had learned again, but anew, the beauty of Transmutation. Sorrow to Anger. Anger to Will. Will to Action. Action to Change. Change to Good. No alchemist had ever worked harder at his task, nor been rewarded with a resolve any greater than the wizard in green.
Soon it would be time. With great power comes great responsibility. The man was no longer such a fool as to believe himself of any great importance… but even as ants move mountains one grain at a time, so would the man work to accomplish his goals.
First the ideal, then the practical, so must it be done. Remember the words of Jonas, as well as his fate… perhaps his book is not yet wholly written.
Altruism. The placing of others before one’s self.
Charity. For the world is possessed of a great need.
Mercy. For those whom do not deserve it.
Forgiveness. The belief that others can change.
Hope. The heart and essence of good.
Redemption. May it yet come to those willing.
The path, while filled with pitfalls and easy to lose, is easy enough to see for the next little while. And then? His formal scholastic studies had not progressed in moons. The business had begun to feel an obligation, no longer a means to an end. The call of the Citadel of Strategic Militancy to the South was daily harder to resist, for its knowledge was so alien, so practical, so essential, so far from his typical abstraction, he knew he must soon journey there to learn the ways of war… for soon was the time. As Garlus had taught, so must the blade be tempered in the forge, and then quenched to bring strength and resilience. The gods had given him a blade within his mind… and he must hone it for the tasks that would need to be done.
The man once again raised his head to notice that Lathander had yet again brought his light to the world. He stood, his tall, thin frame creaking in new places from overuse and little sleep, as if one of much greater years was trapped inside. He stretched, flexing his slight but whip-like muscles… tonight’s job must be finished before he could rest. He brushed his oily, dark hair from his eyes, and rubbed his face… the boyish beard had grown thicker, more luxuriant, in his inattention to his own corporeal form. Catching his appearance in the mirror, the man recoiled, then laughed softly, finally recognizing the brilliant blue eyes as his own. He returned to his work.
He relit the alcohol burner, and adjusted its flame to a white hot jet. Checking the vise still held his work, and bringing the spool of wire close, he carefully softened the platinum alloy, and using the tiny adamantine hammer, carefully finished tapping the inlay into place within the rune. As the wire flowed into its place, the wizard in green completed the incantations required by the Lady of Mysteries. He could feel the tangible life force ebbing from his body, as it always did… the Life Sacrifice required to bind the magic permanently into the runes. The rune glowed briefly with an piercing otherworldly light, and slowly faded to the hue it would forever remain: a glittering, pulsing whitish silver, shot with streaks of reddish fire.
Through his exhaustion and weakness, the man carefully inspected his work, and muttered a prayer to the gods for the completion of this morning’s task. He carefully wrapped the belt around his trim frame, feeling the intoxicating power of a surge of new strength and vitality heretofore unknown. Grasping the heavy ironwood bench, the wizard in green lifted it carefully from the ground, and then slowly returned it to its place. It had worked. The lady, his client, would be most pleased. He prayed the gods that such would help to keep her safe, that she might in time remember Jonas’ words, and begin to heal the wounds that so clearly poisoned her soul.
Praise the Weave, and the Lady whom makes it possible. The man fell into his bed without removing his clothes, and allowed the void of exhausted sleep to take him.
........