Wizardry and Moon Flowers


I eventually found a man, a young acolyte, who offered a basic course in spells in the shadows of a great row of moon flowers around back at a tavern called Whistler’s. I had no idea who Whistler was, and finding out the specifics yielded more than one answer, so I gave up and focused on the strange little class.

“You must make decisions early on which type of magic you wish to specialize in,” the bearded fellow ranted on. “I have explored far too many cellars, attics, and yes…dungeons with would-be wizards who couldn’t scare the dust off of a table with their poorly chosen spell paths.” Prybes, our wizard tutor, soured at the memory and consulted his mug of ale for a moment. “In conclusion, for I am much too overwhelmed at the moment, if you need a good gimmick to catch the eye of a guild leader, there’s no sin in studying the ways of ice. Now please excuse me, I just came down with a chill, and there is something I must do. If any of you are still interested, I will meet you back here next week.” Prybes shot me a nervous look as he bundled up his scrolls and notes. I have seen such a look before, the look of a frightened man.

Later, I took the back road out town, meandering along the last of the autumn roses that grew wild in the scrag forest alongside the road. The moon was out, bright as a silver platter, drifting along with a patch of shredded clouds, hidden but still in plain sight.

Taking a left at the bottom of the hill, I considered the town once more, how even now it bustled with life even in the dark. Up and over the iron fence I went, my wiry vampyric strength still sharp after all this time, all this time of traveling. I had changed for sure. Less maniacal, less impulsive. I was centered…just like the moon.

Graveyards are misunderstood places. The one I currently browsed through for likely shelter had once seen a golden age of crypts, and then a century later, an age of sacred symbols hued from stone, marching away from the crypts on the hill, stopping at the somber, weedy graves down by the fence. History at a glance.

I chose a crypt already sacked by gravediggers. Chances were good that nobody would give a damn twice about such a place. If they let it go to seed after robbery, then most likely the family line was deceased.

Settling down in the back behind the modest tomb, I found what was most likely an old chapel now familiar to vermin instead of a paid priest. Such a place enjoyed a subtle atmosphere, something far past sacrosanct. I soaked it up, thinking both of Ilyana and magic at the same time.

I  knew what I had to do.

In order to synchronize my talents with this dimension’s idea of magic, I would have to do a moon to sun vigil. No sleep allowed, and definitely no blood. If I did it right, I would be ready to march into the fray by noon the next day…if it had to be.



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