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Authors: Ryan Attard
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you?”
The kid’s eyes fell to my shoes. “Any person using the magical arts knows what an enemy might do with their full name,” he replied.
So, this guy was at least a practitioner of magic – most likely the bookish kind. Him and a couple of friends hanging out at the library or surfing the net, until they stumble across some occult page. Flip through enough bullshit, and you’ll eventually find a genuine spell. Then, they’ll use more and more magic until their Core is activated, giving them access to actual power.
Or, at least, that’s how it usually happens unless you are born a wizard, like me.
And he was right to be cautious . There are tons of thaumaturgy practices that can mess you up with just a name or some DNA. But I’m not the voodoo type of guy. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d just throw a fireball in your face.
That generally does the trick.
I looked at the kid and chuckled. I held my hand up, and a dazzling ball of fire sprang to life: flames burning azure, violet, red, yellow and green.
Usually , I can’t use magic. I was born with a curse that traps all my power inside my body, and if I want to use it actively, I need a channel – some sort of weapon or device to push my power through. But about a couple of years ago, I found a way to bypass that by installing a series of crystals inside my office walls. They allowed me free use of magic within my office.
And that, boys and girl s, is how I could light up a dazzling kaleidoscope of fire in the palm of my hand.
The kid was clearly impressed, judging by the way his mouth hung open.
“As you can see,” I said, “if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need your name.”
I put out the fire spell with an elaborate flourish. “So , how about a proper introduction?”
It took a while for him to get back online. “Francis Halowitz.”
I grabbed his still extended hand. “Erik Ashendale. What can I help you with?”
Francis took a deep breath. “I am the leader of a druid sect based in this town. We discovered the sacred arts by accident and pursued it.”
“Druids?” I asked.
He nodded. “Our practices include nature gatherings, prayers, and blessing of forest creatures. Every month we organize a retreat into Trinity Forest or Redwood Park and camp there for a weekend in order to become one with nature.”
Just as I thought − rituals and a whole lot of rain dancing. Nothing which had an actual harmful effect.
“How many are in your group?” I asked.
“Thirteen, of course,” he replied. Of course – meaning that I should have known that most beginners think thirteen is the magic number. Which, by the way, is complete and utter horseshit.
“We all mark ourselves with the Triquerta,” continued Francis. “It represents life, death and rebirth; the cycle of nature. We were a merry bunch – until he joined.”
“And by ‘he’ you mean?”
The kid pulled out a student ID and handed it to me. The boy in the picture had a beak nose, oily, black hair and a smile that suggested he will hack into your World of Warcraft account and wreak havoc.
“Tobias Fartham,” I read aloud. “Are you serious?”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t, but are you seriously telling me his actual name has ‘fart’ in it? How does he not get beat up every ten seconds?”
Francis gave me a dark look. “He does. We all do.”
Ouch. Douche-bag move, Erik.
“Sorry,” I said.
He held his hand up. “It’s fine. I do not apologize for the way I look or my tastes. I have come to accept reality as it is and not let anyone bother me about it.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s quite the mature stand.”
“Being an outcast does that to you.”
Tell me about it, kid. At least this guy seemed to have made his peace with it. Something inside my head kept telling me to fight and struggle.
Francis was still speaking.
“Our whole group is composed of outcasts and people rejected by the mainstream society of our
The kid’s eyes fell to my shoes. “Any person using the magical arts knows what an enemy might do with their full name,” he replied.
So, this guy was at least a practitioner of magic – most likely the bookish kind. Him and a couple of friends hanging out at the library or surfing the net, until they stumble across some occult page. Flip through enough bullshit, and you’ll eventually find a genuine spell. Then, they’ll use more and more magic until their Core is activated, giving them access to actual power.
Or, at least, that’s how it usually happens unless you are born a wizard, like me.
And he was right to be cautious . There are tons of thaumaturgy practices that can mess you up with just a name or some DNA. But I’m not the voodoo type of guy. If I wanted to hurt you, I’d just throw a fireball in your face.
That generally does the trick.
I looked at the kid and chuckled. I held my hand up, and a dazzling ball of fire sprang to life: flames burning azure, violet, red, yellow and green.
Usually , I can’t use magic. I was born with a curse that traps all my power inside my body, and if I want to use it actively, I need a channel – some sort of weapon or device to push my power through. But about a couple of years ago, I found a way to bypass that by installing a series of crystals inside my office walls. They allowed me free use of magic within my office.
And that, boys and girl s, is how I could light up a dazzling kaleidoscope of fire in the palm of my hand.
The kid was clearly impressed, judging by the way his mouth hung open.
“As you can see,” I said, “if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need your name.”
I put out the fire spell with an elaborate flourish. “So , how about a proper introduction?”
It took a while for him to get back online. “Francis Halowitz.”
I grabbed his still extended hand. “Erik Ashendale. What can I help you with?”
Francis took a deep breath. “I am the leader of a druid sect based in this town. We discovered the sacred arts by accident and pursued it.”
“Druids?” I asked.
He nodded. “Our practices include nature gatherings, prayers, and blessing of forest creatures. Every month we organize a retreat into Trinity Forest or Redwood Park and camp there for a weekend in order to become one with nature.”
Just as I thought − rituals and a whole lot of rain dancing. Nothing which had an actual harmful effect.
“How many are in your group?” I asked.
“Thirteen, of course,” he replied. Of course – meaning that I should have known that most beginners think thirteen is the magic number. Which, by the way, is complete and utter horseshit.
“We all mark ourselves with the Triquerta,” continued Francis. “It represents life, death and rebirth; the cycle of nature. We were a merry bunch – until he joined.”
“And by ‘he’ you mean?”
The kid pulled out a student ID and handed it to me. The boy in the picture had a beak nose, oily, black hair and a smile that suggested he will hack into your World of Warcraft account and wreak havoc.
“Tobias Fartham,” I read aloud. “Are you serious?”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t, but are you seriously telling me his actual name has ‘fart’ in it? How does he not get beat up every ten seconds?”
Francis gave me a dark look. “He does. We all do.”
Ouch. Douche-bag move, Erik.
“Sorry,” I said.
He held his hand up. “It’s fine. I do not apologize for the way I look or my tastes. I have come to accept reality as it is and not let anyone bother me about it.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s quite the mature stand.”
“Being an outcast does that to you.”
Tell me about it, kid. At least this guy seemed to have made his peace with it. Something inside my head kept telling me to fight and struggle.
Francis was still speaking.
“Our whole group is composed of outcasts and people rejected by the mainstream society of our
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