Tuesday, July 7, 2015

wizard troubles

Reality was beginning to reject him; it really was a bit of a bother.

At first, when the plants died and all animals fled, the wizard merely made servants of whatever was near: a dead fox, a wilted rose bush, deceased cultists, a tangled pile of fish bones. Magical constructs had no need for food or comfort.

Later, raving mad men and rabid beasts crossed the barren waste to assail his tower and savage his servants. Erecting clever portals and arranging new constructs stole months from his studies, usually just as the stars were right in the sky, of course.

The earth then shuddered and cracked away, refusing his footfalls (and ruining the east wall of his squat, mortar-less tower). He gave his feet purchase upon the River of Time, and moved his books to the cellar.

Air refused to fill his lungs. He cast aside the vestigial organs. Eventually, the wizard learned to ignore the screaming pain of his voided chest.

Annihilating orbs began to condense at random in his pantry. Feeding each a microcosmic star was an onerous bore as well as a drain upon his spectral accounts.

If he moved too quickly, space dilated hyperbolic and sent him crashing into walls and tripping over urns. The adamantine-mesh mitten on his left fist kept his skeletal fingers from slicing through realities, but it also left his guitar gathering dust. He looked at it often and sighed.

He thought about discorporating -and psychically grumbled to the fish-bush-butler about it often- but he never did. He’d catch the sunset and pretend it was just too beautiful to leave. He’d complain about all the liches in ether and witches in the astral. Really, he just didn’t want to leave.

Existence might have actively despised the wizard, but his mind-bending little corner of it still felt like home.

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