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The amber September sun filtered through my blinds, welcoming a glimpse of Fall weather. Still hot as sin, it carried a cool autumn air through the trees. A bit of back story for any of those that may find these journal entries of value. My name is Avon, a General Associate Magizoologist. I have been studying the fantasy creatures that roam these lands for some time, taking note of their behaviors and schedules. I have been hard at work vying for a promotion within the Mage's Guild to a management position. Something with less claw-to-face interaction with these creatures and more of an office position. Not that I wish to ignore my work like some of my colleagues, I only wish for more coin. But, as is the fashion, my superiors have been sticking the carrot out further and further, making me jump through hoop after hoop to prove my worth. It is tedious, but I feel this new rank is closer now than ever before. I started this journal when a letter arrived via Owl, summoning me to a meeting with the Guild's senior-most management. Either I am to be granted my desired new rank, or I will get fired for some frivolous infraction. I did recently insult a Lord interested in our work. In all fairness, they were being quite rude. Regardless, I plan to travel to the Guild and detail my journey in the following pages. I expect an easy journey with no surprises, but one can never tell what this strange land may bring.
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Throughout the land, mages and witches alike go through rigorous training to hone their magical abilities. From standard healing spells to destructive incantations, the general public expects each mage they encounter to have a basic understanding of the different schools of magic. Whereas a simple wand can help cast fireballs and healing light on allies, nothing can hold the magical power required to conjure a wizard's familiar. Grumlax, with a nose for coin and a deaf ear for ethical concerns, has made a business conjuring and binding familiars to mages struggling with the craft. Local reports tell of mages traveling with a hired familiar are found dead and robbed of all treasure, yet Grumlax maintains these are merely unfortunate coincidences while mysteriously gaining more wealth.
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Between ambushing unsuspecting travelers and enjoying her daily ration of cockroach stew, Skreegs finds herself indulging in the most forbidden of Goblin activities: Dreaming. Dreaming of art, dreaming of more stew, and even worse, dreaming of love. While goblins are not known for their successful love lives, Skreegs is convinced that Goblin Ambusher No. 22, whose name eludes her right now, has been giving her the coveted "butterflies." The afternoon's ambush is coming up in three mice squeals and Skreegs is planning on impressing her love with her thumping skills. At the second mice squeal, Skreegs starts to prepare for the ambush when a soft red flower falls from her moss-covered shield. A note attached reads, "Ten ten lovelrit nie. sevenka. - Grumpuk" At the last mice squeak, Skreegs starts to prance out of their home, excited to ambush shoulder to shoulder with their new love. By my count, Grumpuk is Goblin Ambusher No. 23. After trying to follow up with Skreegs, it seems the entire Goblin clan was slaughtered by the King's special Goblin hunters. A sad fate shared by many goblins brave enough to dream instead of keep watch.
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Mistyl, Snail Seer
05:29
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Blue visions, all a seer can own. As large swathes of green land slowly turn to bone, the dying leaves get swept among the plains by a crimson crone. Fierce winds call to life the dormant stones, where revenge on those living is all that is known.
Mistyl's Prophecy.
While the Snail Seers are diminutive in size, their visions are some of the most accurate in the land. Slow and unassuming, the Snail Seer can lay dormant for years, peering into the intricate web that fate weaves. Living as hermits, the snail seer commonly makes their homes in damp soil. I found Mistyl in the bed of a curiously crimson plant, where it was kind enough to share with me the above prophecy. "Most do not care to heed our visions," Mistyl sneered. "But soon, the land will return to its natural beauty and inhabitants. You humans are only speeding along your demise and our reprise." With that, its eyes turned a pale yellow as it returned to its dreams. I felt a slight unease at the prophecy but noticed I was running late to my next stop and forgot about it.
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As my research into Magizoology drove me deeper into lands unknown, I somehow stumbled into a deep maze of high hedges that spanned several miles on all sides. In all my research and planning for my journey, I failed to plan to transverse any mazes. Surprisingly, I never once wondered how I managed to enter this maze. I chalked it up to absent-mindedness or some sort of hex placed on me while reading cursed texts. Regardless of how or why the first step to getting out of a maze is realizing that you are indeed in a maze. The second step is picking a direction and keeping to it. I chose to go west. I wondered rather aimlessly until I happened upon a Minotaur dressed in satin robes drawing on a large slate. "You lost too?" I called out. "No," the Minotaur simply responded. "I am Datagar the Cartographer, and I am here mapping out this maze and yes, I can help you find the exit." We took off bearing east. Astonished by the existence of a Minotaur so confident in their navigating skills, I struggled to keep up as Datagar swiftly strode the maze's winding paths. After an hour we came upon a small opening in the maze's walls that led to an exit. "So a minotaur can best a maze, interesting," I remarked. "That's actually a pretty harmful stereotype," Datagar responded. "Just because Asterius couldn't figure it out doesn't mean we are all hopeless. I work for a guild whose sole goal is to make maps of mazes to help travelers like you out." With that, Datagar turned back into the maze, leaving me to answer my own questions and carry on my way.
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Tal'Yora, Ettin Bards
05:27
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Throughout the annuls of history, there have not been many Ettin Bards, which is why I found it strange to come across one traveling the county side. While one head played flute, the other half played a double bass. Its thudding gate kept a surprisingly good rhythm as it walked. Playing what most would call a melody, the Ettin traded solos back and forth in a clearly rehearsed song. Seeing this creative genius, I had to know more. I followed it along the road, hanging on intently to every note played. I know very little about music theory, but If I did, I am sure I would be impressed not only by the sound but by the arrangement itself. As they ended their song I went to introduce myself. "Excuse me, could I ask a few questions?" The Ettin turned to face me. "Of course," they replied as if they had been waiting for me to ask. "You see, the creative process is a trap," the Ettin stated. "We're not some great creative genius. We just decided to start doing it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't." I asked what happens when it doesn't work. "Who cares when it doesn't work? We lay down for a bit, wallow some, drink some water then get back to it," they replied. "And that's the important bit, if you keep doing it, you'll eventually get it right." With that, the Ettin stood up and bid me a good day. I continued on my journey.
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As I rested my weary soles at the Mage's Guild, I felt a strong urge to reflect upon my journeys through these strange lands. From devious conjurors to lumbering musical geniuses, I realized this had been a long, strange journey. As I leafed through my notes, I felt a sudden dread wash over me, as if I was being watched by a being more dreadful than all the seven Hells combined. As I scanned the foyer of the Great Hall, I came upon a rather peculiar-looking skull. Upon closer examination, I felt a strange whisper dragging me closer for a more detailed look. "I can sense your journeys have taken you far and wide," the skull whispered. "If you care to share your knowledge with me, Gadzkul, the once great Lich, would offer you some critiques." As I peered into the skull's eyes, I could feel the ever-present despair rise in my chest, yet I felt compelled to share. Whether it was the lure of Gadzkul's eyes or simply the allure of sharing my notes with another scholar, I gladly let the Demilich review my notes. "Bah, I say BAH." The Demilich spat dust. "Errors upon boring, contrived stories. Simply put, who cares?" The skull returned to its dormant state, leaving me to reflect upon my journey thus far. "Really, who does care?" I thought. "I am rarely sure I care. But truth be told, this journey has taught me quite a bit about the world and the chaos that surrounds us all." I sat pondering the critiques of the skull, many of which I would consider my own. "Who cares for all this?" I ask myself. "I care." I answered, realizing that is all that really matters.
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8. |
A Long Journey Home
01:49
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So the Council as spoken. I was not granted a new promotion, nor was I granted a raise. As I had thought, they simply wished to scold me for insulting one of their donors. Also, they expect me to continue doing my job while taking on the responsibilities of the position I wanted. Still, the things I have seen and experienced this past month have shed new light on my dreary mind. There are still surprises out in the world, begging me to find them. Outside the pages of dusty research papers, there are unknown and fantastical elements wandering the roads and countryside. I am awash with excitement for the journey ahead, to explore the unknown, and to revel in the beauty that is the chaos of our world. Still, a raise sure would have been nice.
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Ten of Swords South Carolina
The wizard drones only of despair.
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