Sam Fairbridge
Member
- Messages
- 17
Patience was a virtue that the unseen servant made sentient had in infinite supply. Other mages had attempted to do what he had applied himself to perform, yet simply did not have the three day and night endurance to scribe what he was one vowel away from finishing now. And of course, the time required to deduce the goings on of what was truly being uttered by the stone faces that marked the opening to the cave. They chanted low and quietly, almost so quietly that the ear could not hear, but it was there. A humming of a single vowel, chanted for exactly an hour, before the next reinforced the incantation. And so it had gone on for years, protecting this place. A cave that protected itself with a field of static light that much like the intonation, could barely be perceived. That while the low tone could be confused for the wind, the bones that littered the passageway could not, and most adventurers thought better than to try their luck or be added to that pile.
And those who did, who grew curious from the stories told by the local village of an interminable treasure within the cave. Some said a abjurer had left their finest artefacts within it. Others said an ancient religion had made their final holy relic's resting place within the cave, to be undisturbed, yet fashioned of one piece of solid gold that would fund five noble's lifestyles for a hundred years.
Sam's body had not moved from underneath the tree that provided shade that had rotated numerous times as he had made his observations, his deductions, his scribing and his notations to the spell. He thought not on what was inside the cave. Indeed, this spell was a treasure all it's own, and much more to his taste. He had listened, paid attention, and made his scholarly pursuits a success. And with this final vowel being uttered and moving onto the first, the pattern recognised by Sam came to the beginning again.
With the mark of a final vowel upon his spellbook, it was done. The secret behind this barrier was written into one wizard's book, to perhaps become academia if he found the right library or coven or perhaps school to provide such knowledge towards.
“Thank you, statues,” he said, finally as he got up from his sitting position, where he had resembled a statue himself aside from the occasional noting of a single syllable from his gloved hand. He bowed deeply to the statues, and kept his hand on his hat to prevent it from falling.
Rising, he took the first step in days. There was no ligament to ache, no muscle to relieve of tension, just a body that worked, fair and plain, arcane and mysterious, unlife granted to one who had been a servant to an arch-mage. The robes he wore belonged to his former master, a regal thing full of pockets that still held various components for the wizard practice that Sam had taken up as best he could, from studying for lifetimes of the spells that had been littered around the tower. A tower he had escaped. A world anew from the hermetically sealed place he had called home.
“Well, I've been here long enough. Perhaps I should write a sign describing what fate awaits those who try to enter from this spell. A child might wander in. Yes. Yes I think I'll do what whoever made this spell should have done. A warning. Yes.”
Sam adjusted his hat and reached for his heavy pack, a complicated system of storage that contained all manner of wizardly tools and some mundane. With perfect memory he pulled out two small boards of wood, and a hammer, and set to setting up a sign. It was simple enough work, yet Sam found great satisfaction from the meagre construction. He gave a small hum.
“What to write, hm. Warning, this lattice of self realising points of power will scorch and burn? No, no that's too complicated. Maybe, no, no no no,” he hummed to himself, crouched by the sign, oblivious to who might approach behind him, so absorbed in his own work. He was a being of infinite patience, and could sometimes find himself locked into obsession over minor details which caused delay to his next moment of initiative.
An hour passed before he pressed his hands into his hips and came across the final decision.
“Maybe just, 'each statue means to harm you. Stay away.' Yes. I think that'll do.”
He set to work, painting the words slowly and with all the elegance of a professional sign maker, even if the sign's construction was crude, the words would be bold and cursive.
One had to take pride in the little things, Sam thought to himself.
And those who did, who grew curious from the stories told by the local village of an interminable treasure within the cave. Some said a abjurer had left their finest artefacts within it. Others said an ancient religion had made their final holy relic's resting place within the cave, to be undisturbed, yet fashioned of one piece of solid gold that would fund five noble's lifestyles for a hundred years.
Sam's body had not moved from underneath the tree that provided shade that had rotated numerous times as he had made his observations, his deductions, his scribing and his notations to the spell. He thought not on what was inside the cave. Indeed, this spell was a treasure all it's own, and much more to his taste. He had listened, paid attention, and made his scholarly pursuits a success. And with this final vowel being uttered and moving onto the first, the pattern recognised by Sam came to the beginning again.
With the mark of a final vowel upon his spellbook, it was done. The secret behind this barrier was written into one wizard's book, to perhaps become academia if he found the right library or coven or perhaps school to provide such knowledge towards.
“Thank you, statues,” he said, finally as he got up from his sitting position, where he had resembled a statue himself aside from the occasional noting of a single syllable from his gloved hand. He bowed deeply to the statues, and kept his hand on his hat to prevent it from falling.
Rising, he took the first step in days. There was no ligament to ache, no muscle to relieve of tension, just a body that worked, fair and plain, arcane and mysterious, unlife granted to one who had been a servant to an arch-mage. The robes he wore belonged to his former master, a regal thing full of pockets that still held various components for the wizard practice that Sam had taken up as best he could, from studying for lifetimes of the spells that had been littered around the tower. A tower he had escaped. A world anew from the hermetically sealed place he had called home.
“Well, I've been here long enough. Perhaps I should write a sign describing what fate awaits those who try to enter from this spell. A child might wander in. Yes. Yes I think I'll do what whoever made this spell should have done. A warning. Yes.”
Sam adjusted his hat and reached for his heavy pack, a complicated system of storage that contained all manner of wizardly tools and some mundane. With perfect memory he pulled out two small boards of wood, and a hammer, and set to setting up a sign. It was simple enough work, yet Sam found great satisfaction from the meagre construction. He gave a small hum.
“What to write, hm. Warning, this lattice of self realising points of power will scorch and burn? No, no that's too complicated. Maybe, no, no no no,” he hummed to himself, crouched by the sign, oblivious to who might approach behind him, so absorbed in his own work. He was a being of infinite patience, and could sometimes find himself locked into obsession over minor details which caused delay to his next moment of initiative.
An hour passed before he pressed his hands into his hips and came across the final decision.
“Maybe just, 'each statue means to harm you. Stay away.' Yes. I think that'll do.”
He set to work, painting the words slowly and with all the elegance of a professional sign maker, even if the sign's construction was crude, the words would be bold and cursive.
One had to take pride in the little things, Sam thought to himself.
