Written by Anthony Laurens
Losing things is never fun - and trying to find them with Magic has the potential for all manner of dastardly chicanery, particularly when Magic has a sense of humour.
It was not long until he realised his error. Spells are rather particular things by their very nature, and sorcery does tend to revel in its own eclectic humour: for this is the nature of Magic. Mortir soon discovered this when, in an attempt to locate the thing he was looking for, he was somehow unable to reach out and grasp the item upon gaining sight of it. You see - since Mortir found himself suddenly unable to - demanding of the Magics to 'feast ones eyes' upon a thing does not guarantee an awful lot, save the specifics of the request, and at the behest of the divine... well, a certain sense of propriety and decorum is a must. Towards this end, Mortir extended his arm and reached into nothing save the air in front of him, whilst his eyes set about ‘feasting’ in a different room entirely.
Fumbling and feeling his way through his surroundings, Mortir found his way to the appropriate room to gather his missing fixtures and acquire his item. Once the sorcerer had located his, now rather dusty, eyeballs and popped them back into his vacant eye-sockets, he lifted the thing into the candlelight of his painfully run-of-the-mill apothecary.
'T-terribly dusty. This won't-t do at-t all.' Mortir had read that old wise wizards often stuttered. It was appropriate to play the part, although, as with all things Mortir did, he wasn't very good at it. 'T-take the c-cover off and dust it. Yes, yes. Very good. N-now then, to work.'
Mortir busied himself with gathering the necessary ingredients, weighing the powders and occasionally sneezing them across the desk and into other potions and tinctures. His task was laboured all the more by dealing with whatever mishaps resulted from spilling one arcane substance into another along the way. A book singing its contents in a brilliant tenor, a candlestick dancing with the feather duster in a suspiciously familiar fashion, at one point he even summoned a rather fashionable wolf in sheep's clothing - mind you it wasn't the weather for wool in the slightest.
His puzzlement and quandary over the many diagrams and rituals were interrupted with a knock at the door. Mortir, considering the failure that his last attempt to hide the Book of Magic had been, decided to tuck it into his robe instead, and hurried across the hallway to meet his unexpected guest.
'They have been waiting for you in the guildhall for an hour.' The worn, impatient voice of a man who had uttered far too many invocations in his lifetime reached Mortir’s ears faster than the leathery face met his eyes. 'You are to come immediately, unless you wish to save us all the bother and hand over your resignation now.'
Mortir frowned his most sullen frown, he had forgotten all about his disciplinary hearing when he had translocated his eyeballs to the library. 'M-may I gather my -'
'Leave off, Mortir... talk properly for Holnirm's sake.' The leathery figure turned away, motioning for the haphazard Sorcerer to follow behind.
They reached the Guildhall; a splendid building built up from the ruins of an old castle keep, war-torn many centuries past. Mortir seldom visited, for he had little business cavorting with the other members of the Guild. Not because he didn't want to, but because nothing good ever came of it. They entered the grandest hall within the keep and there he met the steely gaze of the council.
'An hour late, Mortir. This does not bode well for you. Let's cut to the chase shall we.' The Sorceress at the centre of the table rose as she spoke. 'Three fires in as many weeks, a horse stampede through the market square, Items disappearing from homes and reappearing in mysterious locations. The Faris’s lost their entire family history records to a flood inside their cottage! The village cannot keep bearing the brunt of your recklessness. Until you can control yourself we see no reason to allow you to continue to practise amongst us. What do you have to say for yourself?'
Mortir looked at his feet and mumbled something inaudible before reaching into his robe and fingering the edges of the tome within. He knew he couldn't explain what he was trying to do, nor could he ask for help to achieve it. The consequences of the Council discovering him seemed steeper than accepting exile. He approached the table and silently relinquished his guild slip, an enchanted piece of parchment which allowed him access to the Plane in which Holnirm existed. Lady Sorceress accepted the slip and in the next moment he was alone.
Alone, cold, and very lost.
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