- Messages
- 26
The tower stood in defiance of gravity and the trappings of structural integrity, all crooked and stumbling blocks of stone amassed in column that could hardly be called stable. The wind did threaten to bring down the entire thing in a mass exodus of cohesion at any point, yet, the tower never dared to lose it's form to release the bricks from their ghastly assembly. The wizard who called this place home paid no mind to the increasing angles to which he had to climb on supposed flat floors, made accommodation when brewing and quaffing not to spill so eagerly in one direction, and found rolling out of bed was a far easier thing than most days. His drinks spilled often, he tumbled out of bed with a swift and momentus start most days, and climbing his staircases was oft an opportunity to pitch the tower itself in precarious leans.
Most individuals might move home, or fix the condition of their abode. Yet Kazaban stamped his feet with a regularity that would be deemed suicidal by most, oblivious or outright acting in spite of his haphazard dominion. So it was in this moment as he stamped down the staircase did the tower canter upon it's moorings, leaning this way and that as if the building itself had been gifted a hula hoop.
He muttered to himself in various volumes and pitch. Spats of curses, usherings of contrivances ill received, grumblings and convictions made known only to the stonework that was audience to his chuntering. The odd jot of proclamation, the rare moment of screeching. His mind was an erratic place at the best of times, and his recent forgetfulness after drinking a vast amount of alchemical potions had left him more credulous to outlandish fancy. And more susceptible to his own flight of fancies of last week turning into bombastic and most unfamiliar circumstances.
So it was that Kazaban the Mad, known as such to the firmly sane, reached his front door, a solid thing of oak that was blackened by wild sorch marks from his gnarled and much the same hued fingernails, that when opened flung open as the hinges were loaned great pivoting motion for virtue of the towers gyration and present leanings. Slam went the door, and Kazaban did spy something that lay just about the threshold.
“A wooden box? I don't remember ordering anything? Then again, it could be from one of my friends,” Kazaban said to himself.
The wind howled as his mind, empty, could barely summon a single face to put to extensive lists of enemies that might be charitable enough to bring him gift via crate.
Kazaban huffed as he could not place time nor date nor previous intention or design on the arrival of the vast crate. He scratched his head, and scratched and scritched.
“It must be from one of my friends,” Kazaban concluded with a certainty which was as axiomatic to the truth of things, and looked for mark or make of crate, some sign of what was inside.
“A present! Is it...is it my birthday already?” Kazban declared, and grew giddy, his feet now on truly level ground that he found himself somewhat sea sick at the lack of motion and give in the firmament. He gave a short curt and violent wrapping upon the crate with gnarled fist, as if he was addressing his own door. For while Kazaban was Mad, and he was surely a fool, he enjoyed these moments of not knowing, which were frequent and often in these troubled ill balanced days of tower living, for nothing about Kazaban could be called balanced in any measure of the meaning.
Zakarias
Most individuals might move home, or fix the condition of their abode. Yet Kazaban stamped his feet with a regularity that would be deemed suicidal by most, oblivious or outright acting in spite of his haphazard dominion. So it was in this moment as he stamped down the staircase did the tower canter upon it's moorings, leaning this way and that as if the building itself had been gifted a hula hoop.
He muttered to himself in various volumes and pitch. Spats of curses, usherings of contrivances ill received, grumblings and convictions made known only to the stonework that was audience to his chuntering. The odd jot of proclamation, the rare moment of screeching. His mind was an erratic place at the best of times, and his recent forgetfulness after drinking a vast amount of alchemical potions had left him more credulous to outlandish fancy. And more susceptible to his own flight of fancies of last week turning into bombastic and most unfamiliar circumstances.
So it was that Kazaban the Mad, known as such to the firmly sane, reached his front door, a solid thing of oak that was blackened by wild sorch marks from his gnarled and much the same hued fingernails, that when opened flung open as the hinges were loaned great pivoting motion for virtue of the towers gyration and present leanings. Slam went the door, and Kazaban did spy something that lay just about the threshold.
“A wooden box? I don't remember ordering anything? Then again, it could be from one of my friends,” Kazaban said to himself.
The wind howled as his mind, empty, could barely summon a single face to put to extensive lists of enemies that might be charitable enough to bring him gift via crate.
Kazaban huffed as he could not place time nor date nor previous intention or design on the arrival of the vast crate. He scratched his head, and scratched and scritched.
“It must be from one of my friends,” Kazaban concluded with a certainty which was as axiomatic to the truth of things, and looked for mark or make of crate, some sign of what was inside.
“A present! Is it...is it my birthday already?” Kazban declared, and grew giddy, his feet now on truly level ground that he found himself somewhat sea sick at the lack of motion and give in the firmament. He gave a short curt and violent wrapping upon the crate with gnarled fist, as if he was addressing his own door. For while Kazaban was Mad, and he was surely a fool, he enjoyed these moments of not knowing, which were frequent and often in these troubled ill balanced days of tower living, for nothing about Kazaban could be called balanced in any measure of the meaning.
Zakarias
