Disclaimer - Boi if I owned Frozen would I be writing fanfiction for it? Hmm, hmmm?

If you like, puh-LEASE review. Reviews clear my pores and gives me vitamin C ( at least i think that's one of the vitamins )

Chapter One

The Sorceress's Storm

In the gray of a late-oktober afternoon, the first drops of rain end their fleeting lives upon the nose of a lovely farm girl, who lifts her hands to the heavens' lament and twirls in merry circles.

It rains from the North Mountain down to the far reaches of the Arendelle Queendom. Over rolling green hills in the south to the churning sea in the north and west. Children, much to the chagrin of their mothers, steal brief, gleeful moments in the showers, dancing and singing and molding mud-pies for unsuspecting victims.

Far west of the children's joy, upon a southbound road, state documents shift in Elsa's lap. She lifts her gaze to see the frantic rainfall that pitter-patters upon the dirt road. There are shouts outside her carriage, which come to a stop soon after. She hears the following conveyances behind her too slow to a halt, as men clad in basil-green uniforms do what they can to shelter supplies from an unexpected downpour.

A rocking lantern swings to view, revealing the professional countenance of Sergeant Affersson. He briefly perceives the snoring forms of Olaf and Anna seated across from his queen, then addresses Elsa with a bowed head.

"Your Majesty," he says, "It's raining."

One slender brow assumes gradual ascension. A measure of silence. "Truly?"

There is no helping her mild derision; she is tired, and the Sergeant's report is so apparent that she already wants him to go away.

Stop it, she tells herself, everybody is tired. The man is only doing his job.

With a short breath, Elsa reigns in her patience. "Does our guide believe it might get worse, Sergeant?"

Afferson nods with trained promptness. "He suggests we find shelter half a league down-road, at a traveler's inn called The Bee's Barb."

"Hospitable," is Elsa's sardonic muse, mostly to herself. "Does the inn have some renown?"

"Never heard of it in my life, Your Majesty. Must not get good business."

Elsa contemplates for a length of time. The rain's tap-dance atop the royal coach soon becomes a steady sea of taps. Men bearing the Golden Crocus visibly shiver out in the morbid weather. Strange that darkness had come so swiftly. Was it not but late afternoon?

"I will speak with him." Elsa gathers her skirts of the fine attire she had worn for breakfast at the Sigland's Barony, one of two dozen under her rule.

The Sergeant does not protest. He too is weary of the day. The rain had been a surprise to everybody, and not at all welcome for their travel. He disappears shortly, returning with her shroud given to him by one of her ladies-in-waiting. She accepts it out of queenly civility (in a shorter time she could have crafted her own weather-proof garb), and slips from the carriage by Afferson's proffered hand. Four seconds ago, she had been wearing elegant heels. Now, within the confines of her skirts, they transmute to practical boots.

Virgin Mary, it is dark! Even with the lanterns, she can see no more than five to six feet ahead of them. It is almost unnatural. In fact, it rather is.

The travel guide, Odd, stands at the nose of the company. He leans over an impromptu table—some empty supply crates—where two poor guards shelter the paper by holding out the wings of their cloaks. Elsa clutches the front of her shroud to hold it around her as she joins Odd, who bows and gestures at the lantern-lit map.

"Crazy weather!" He shouts over the wind's howls. "Came from nowhere! Ain't seen nuthin' like it in my fifty-eight years of life, Majesty!"

"Came from nowhere you said?" Elsa too raises her voice over the storm. She has to squint to see him; the wind and rain ruthlessly pelts her porcelain face, even with her hood pulled overhead.

"Aye!" Odd nods, "Aye it did. A gray day it was, bu' no sign of the makin's of storm! No front, no thunder clouds, no herald winds, even!"

"Why is it so dark?"

"Looks like night, don't it?" Despite the almost frightening circumstances, Odd lets out an incredulous laugh. "My only guess is the clouds, Majesty. But I ain't ever heard o' clouds dense enough to bring early nightfall!"

The queen rolls the traveler's words about in her mind. "And what of the inn? It's big enough to house our whole company?"

"No' room-wise, Majesty! But Becky and Benson would let yer men camp themselves in the stables!"

"Their fees?"

"10 kroner a night! Twenty for every horse!"

Elsa stares at Odd, who shrugs. An unbecoming to gesture before royalty, but the queen could care less. "Roadside inns don't get much business, Majesty. The Bee's Barb is the only one for leagues."

Swift calculations are made from her apt memory. Fifteen guards, four horse boys, four ladies-in-waiting, six servants, and six horses-two for every carriage, one for every supply wagon. Yes, she can certainly afford her intentions. I wonder how much a snowman would cost. She turns to the Affersson. "Sergeant! Inform the company that we will make for shelter! They will not need to worry about payment!"

The Sergeant nods and turns to a horse boy, who stands at frigid attention. "Did you catch that?"

The boy dashes off to relay the word of their queen. Elsa watches him go, when a sudden idea strikes her. She turns her gaze skyward, or where the sky would have been, studying the black mass that is the storm.

With a gathering of will, Elsa contains her cerulean magic within a phosphorescent snowball and casts it spiraling towards the clouds, where she watches it explode in a dazzle of winter and light. She has changed the weather before. Perhaps…

The wind comes harder, if possible, and rips through the company like avenging spirits. Horses nicker and neigh, kicking their legs and cantering to and fro as horse boys and guards alike skip clear and try to snatch their reigns. A chill rushes up Elsa's spine, an eerie malevolence that crawls and seeps into her.

This is no natural storm.

The storm is vengeful, and only a fraction less so within the coach. Early in the morning, when the company had set off from the Sigland township, Elsa had the glass of her window removed (it is the old, ceremonial coach that her parents had used for travel, with no latches or levers to open the window herself) so she would feel the morning air. But now invasive rain spatters in, wetting her documents. Once settled, Elsa taps the window sill with a forefinger, watching as a thin sheet of ice rises as makeshift glass.

"I… I… I…" Olaf seems to be enraptured, eyes fixated on the storm outside.

"Olaf?" Concern etches in Elsa's voice.

"I… love it!" The snowman laughs kicking his feet and swinging his arms in boyful praise. "It's like impatient snow!"

Laughter from the queen, and she stoops to kiss his carrot nose. The storm may be strange and strong, but little Olaf could lift anybody's spirits, no matter the circumstance.

o 0 o

The storm does not relent.

The Bee's Barb is an inviting beacon to any traveler caught in the torrents and terrors of the deluge. It's a squat place, quaint, with a fair merry glow that pulses beyond its windows. The promise of food and warmth.

The street is empty, muddy, and riddled with puddles. So when the wizard emerges from nothing and falls face-first into it, there's a long, morbid groan and a short laugh.

Rain. It had to be rain.

The wizard tries to stand up, but his cheeks bulge when the aftermath of Leaping catches up. Two heaves before his stomach empties on the road.

"That," he spits, "I'm never doing that again."

He stands on wobbly legs, long coat trailing in the mud. The inn sits just ahead, welcoming and cheery. Somebody is playing the nyckelharpa from within, its distant notes dampened by the storm. The wizard grunts. Huh. Convenient.

But he doesn't approach yet; isn't he forgetting something? It's important—very important. What is… oh!

"Staff, staff staff." The wizard stumbles about, splashing in the puddles like a drunkard. That Leap really has left him witless. "Staff. Come on!"

He reaches out and from the rain-pelted ground a staff of birch, by an unseen force, lurches up and slaps into his palm. Impressive to the unaware, reflexive to the wizard. He thumps the staff into the ground, the reassuring vibrations in his hand eliciting a little grin. "We have a lot of work to do, buddy."

He's not talking to the staff—which would have been ridiculous, he definitely does not do that, ever—but to the Egyptian Mau that huddles under his jacket. The cat blinks up at her wizard with amber eyes and retreats further from the unwanted rain.

Three brisk knocks. Nothing. The nyckelharpa continues, the wizard can hear a ballad chanted by a round of hearty voices.

The wizard shuffles uneasily, glancing over his shoulder and into the soaking darkness. He's Leapt far, yes. But his pursuer is stronger than he is, with knowledge of old magics that run deeper than his abilities. Caution is mandatory.

He knocks harder. The music doesn't stop, but a hoarse voice shouts something he can't make out. Taking it as an admittance, he pushes the door open and enters.

Inside, it's like he steps into an alternate world. The interior is a clash of modern and old Norse designs, patterned beams standing in no apparent order with round tables placed at random to his left and right. A fiery bed of coals stretch down the center of the room, flanking which sit long tables where perhaps half a dozen men engage in raucous banter. There's a bar at the far side, behind which a burly-armed woman cleans a large mug.

The singing group take no notice of the newcomer, which is fine by him. Dripping and quaking from the clinging cold, the wizard takes squelching steps down the room and places both hands atop the counter.

"Hi."

The bartender takes her meticulous time cleaning the mug, his smile doesn't drop.

"Lønn?" She says without looking.

"Lonn, yes. Lonn…" the wizard drums his fingers, "… what's that?"

An irritated grunt. She points to a sign hanging above the counter: Ingen lønn, ingen tjeneste.

Jesus, how far north have I come?

If he's indeed Leapt further north than he intended—and he doesn't know what exactly he intended—then he should consider himself lucky that he didn't fall into the sea. That would have been… well, unfortunate to say the least.

The wizard raised both hands apologetically. "Sorry. I don't understand."

He had left in a panic, with just enough time to snatch his staff, Isis, and the object his pursuers desired. An object that lies in his pockets now as the wizard scratches his chin and churns his mind for what move to take next.

Swedish, perhaps? He knows very little. "Talar du engelska?"

The bartender, whose scowl begins to split her ruddy face, shook her head.

"Talar du engelska?" The wizard asks over his shoulder at the group of laughing men.

All of them stop at once like a singular organism, staring at the stranger like he's somehow affronted them. "Norsk," one of them drawls, and the wizard runs long fingers though sopping sandy curls. Boy, oh boy. I've Leapt to Norway. Bloody Norway.

This, on many levels, is not good. He doesn't know the language. Time is too short to craft a proper Alltongue Charm. He already is pushing his chances by stopping here, but the storm is too much. His powers are significantly weakened under running water, even with his staff and familiar.

A familiar who now has stuck her head from the confines of his heavy jacket and is blinking owlishly about. The wizard scratches Isis's head. "Oh, you wake now that there's food."

"Mew."

"I could've used your help around ten minutes ago."

"Mew."

"Stop being cute. You have a lot to answer for."

Their chat is cut short by meaty fingers snapping under the wizard's nose. The scowl is more apparent now on the bartender's face. Her hand finds his shoulder, grip vice-like, and the wizard stiffens.

"She wants you to pay, friend," a smiling blonde man in suspenders takes the seat next to him. "She doesn't get much business up here. Charges for the fire, same as food and lodging."

"An Englishman, so far north?" The wizard fishes under his coat for his pouch of coins.

Shaking his head, he taps a dangling shard of bark about his neck, an Old Irish rune carved into its face. A professionally-crafted Alltongue Charm, something far better made than the one the wizard had left behind.

"North Branch," the other wizard says, "Fancy seeing London Branch so far from home. What brings you to Arendelle, friend?"

The chances of finding another wizard by coincidence is near astronomical, and the wizard is unsure whether to be suspicious or relieved. The naive boy apprentice is long gone, and of course, his mission goes against every law set by the Society of Mystics.

When his comrades discover what he's done, which will be within the hour, he would be deemed an Unforgivable, and sentenced to life within the undersea prison. But they won't understand, and he has no time to explain.

"Who says I'm from London Branch?"

The stranger points, "Says the cat. You brits do love your domestic familiars."

The wizard retrieves four coins from the pouch, but before he slips them out, he thumbs them. "Local currency?"

"Krone," says his 'new friend', whose eyes never leave the wizard. A cigar is lit. "You smoke?"

"I've cut back."

"Oh?"

In honesty, the wizard doesn't feel comfortable accepting anything from the stranger, even if he's a fellow wizard. Has the notice of what he's done reached Scandinavia already? The concern festers in his mind as the coins he thumbs morph to four kroner of 20. The bartender's eyes widen briefly as they're sent clattering on her counter, swiping them into her apron. Her scowl is promptly placed with a pleasant grin, showing teeth yellowed by smoke.

Perhaps I should cut back. Don't want chompers like that.

"Got me," the wizard spares the stranger a brief smirk, "As British as they come. Took the Aerotransit from Wiltshire. Famished from the trip."

The bartender beats her massive fists against a loose door that must lead to the kitchen, shouting in norsk. The Inn's chef barks back just as fervently.

"The Aerotransit?" The stranger's eyes still scrutinize, "Curious."

"Curious how?" The wizard waves off offered brandy. Goodness, the bartender treats him like a king, now! "Could you possibly tell her I'd like some tea?"

"Of course. My friend here prefers tea, Becky." His hand slaps the wizard's back amiably, which rigidifies his spine in discomfort. Isis scampers from her shelter within his coat and stretches atop the counter, yawning wide and long.

"Sorry friend," the stranger shrugs apologetically, "Becky don't serve tea. Got some ales, some brandies, coffee…"

"Oh, coffee. Coffee, please."

"Becky, this good man would like some coffee!" He claps the wizard's back again.

"I'd appreciate it, friend, if you stopped that."

"Why, does it make you uncomfortable?" The stranger suddenly moves closer, hissing under-breath, "Curious that you arrive by Aerotransit when it's been banned in Scandinavian skies three months prior," a terse smile, "friend."

Oh what luck. Ohh what splendid luck. Think quick you idiot.

Mirthless chuckles. The wizard leans over and massages his brow, head shaking. "Never been the best fibber."

"Clearly."

"Not been here, what, ten minutes and I run into a 'fellow man'. What are the chances of that?"

Becky gives the two an odd look as she places a steaming mug of black coffee in front of the wizard.

"Higher now, for the past few months. "Four of us are now assigned to Arendelle."

"So you're an Officer." Not good.

All the stranger offers is a grin. It's no longer friendly. "You Leapt here, no?"

No answer.

"Yes, you've Leapt. Is this your staff?" He reaches for it, "May I?"

"Handling a man's staff before courtship?" the wizard's pulls it closer, "I'm flustered."

"You've got a mouth."

"How else would I drink this fine coffee?"

The stranger laughs, holding out a hand, "Magnus Holt."

Hands aren't shaken. "What do you want, Magnus Holt?"

"To be indulged, 'fellow man'," he gestures to the staff again, "Don't you think those are a bit…"

"Overkill?"

"Old-fashioned." Magnus says, "Redundant?"

"Hey..." the wizard sounds sincerely offended, and he cradles his staff as if protecting a babe. He isn't too aware of what magical tools are in fashion and what are not. His former master had favored the old ways, disgruntled against progress, and a protester when the Aerotransit, a system of trains ingeniously enchanted to travel above the clouds, was first put into production.

Magnus accepts an ale from Becky, flipping a coin she catches without looking. "So, strange fellow man. Let me evaluate the basics. A fellow man Leaps all the way from—what was it—Wintshire? He Leaps from Wintshire to Norway, a feat that requires copious amounts of energy, more than one little 'fellow man' could produce, and not five minutes before he arrives…" he takes a swig of the ale, "Mmh, good draft Becky. Not five minutes before you arrive through that door," Magnus jabs a finger at it, "a freak storm hits."

Freak storm? "Freak storm?" The wizard's mind reels. She can't be here. She can't be. Not already.

Magnus Holt studies the wizard's face, then he leans back, taking a contemplative puff of his cigar. "The day looked like it might rain, but no hints of a storm. Our weather workers were shocked, said nothing like this was to be expected for another fortnight. We've been keeping tabs on the queen, considering what she is, but…"

"What she is?" The wizard avoids Magnus's searching eyes. To meet them would solicit a soulgaze, something that would vastly expand his growing list of problems. "Queen's a mystic?"

Magnus taps ash from the end of his cigar. "We have no idea. But that's not what I'm getting at here, friend."

"From your tone, I wouldn't think you considered me a friend."

"I don't know," the Officer eyes drop to the staff the wizard still grasps, "You concern me. My business is… delicate, and here comes you, an anomaly appearing in a spontaneous storm."

"Doesn't sound so bad to me."

Isis senses her wizard's tension, her lantern orbs turning to the pair of them from where she was previously sniffing an abandoned meal.

"Would you like to know what I think?"

"Is that rhetorical?"

"You," with an air of finality, Magnus sets the mug of ale down on the counter, "look like a man on the run. Now," he doesn't smile this time, "if I trace your Leap, will it lead me to, um, Winchester, or will it lead me to London Office?"

Both of them sit very still. The nyckelharpa leans into a new tune, something slower and sad. The young woman who plays it sways side to side, her eyes closed and paying no heed to the lewd looks she receives from her audience. Becky seems to notice the tension building, her hand straying for a blunderbuss strapped to the underside of the counter.

The wizard considers his options. There aren't many, and none of them are particularly good. Magnus Holt doesn't seem like a bad man, perhaps he is even a good man. All the more reason to keep him as far away from what he's doing as possible. The Officer would attempt to stop him. Considering his obvious intellect, he most likely could.

Facts in his favor. This is a public environment, which means Magnus can't do anything to him yet. Magnus still doesn't have a clear picture as to why he's come so far. Surely, if he were to know, he'd be incinerated where he sat.

Options… options… options.

Option. Singular.

The wizard takes one long drink of his coffee. Well, what else're you good at?

Magnus sees what he's doing just as he does it, and covers is face with his forearm, "Don't-!"

"Solas!" The wizard raises his staff and from its tip a flash of white radiance blinds all who see. He dives from his chair, Isis in hot pursuit as he makes a dash for the door. There are panicked shouts and a crash behind. The previously loud and singing men were toppling over one another. A blunderbuss barks from behind the counter, the back of a chair splintering right by the wizard's elbow as he finds the door.

"Are you crazy?" Bellows Magnus, who's striding for the retreating wizard, "Do you realize what you've done?!"

Yeah, yeah. I'm trying to save all of humanity at the moment. Like a bloody idiot.

The door is flung open, and the wizard plunges into the storm.

"Tilda, stay here," Magnus breezes by his apprentice who had been playing the nyckelharpa, "If the queen arrives," he hisses, "don't make a move. Wait for me." He glances about at the howling men, then to the bartender with the smoking gun, "And clean up this mess."

His apprentice nods, a fire in her eyes. She clutches her instrument, a pillar of calm amongst the screaming men and their burning eyes that had lecherously leered at her moments before, watching as her master chases after the runaway wizard.

That idiot is going to ruin everything, is her boiling thought as she sets about altering memories and healing eyes.

The wizard goes for the forest behind The Bee's Barb. Strange magics dwell about trees, and he thinks perhaps he can draw from them. Even under rainfall that would be of some use. A spell whizzes by him and strikes the ground in a streak of green light, and he knows that Magnus is after him.

"Isis!" He stops just long enough to snatch his familiar from the ground, "Take it! Take it away!"

Another spell splinters a tree as he passes it. Are those lethal?!

Isis's head dips behind the lapels of his jacket, and when she withdraws something metallic glints between her teeth. The wizard never wishes to see that thing again, one that has brought his life onto steady decay.

He holds Isis close in a tight hug for an instant, and prays to Whoever might be listening that his dear friend would be safe. "Sorry," he whispers, and tosses her to the side. The cat lands on all fours, darting off into the shadows.

Not five more frantic steps are taken when an invisible force slams into the wizards back. The world wheels about and his body rattles when a pain erupts throughout his body. Two blinks later, he's laying at the base of a tree.

"I don't want to hurt you!" Magnus shouts over the storm, "I just want answers! Things aren't looking good for you right now!"

"That's very apparent, yes," the wizard wheezes under-breath.

"I believe I've never met your acquaintance!" Judging buy the sound, Magnus isn't terribly far. He knows the Officer wants to follow his voice. "Let's start with your name! I told you mine, what's yours?"

"That'd be the polite thing, wouldn't it?" The wizard feels his side. Ribs still in tact.

Magnus' head whipped about, droplets of rainwater flying from his swinging hair as he attempted to gage from where the voice came. "Indeed, friend!"

"Listen to me carefully, Magnus Holt!" The wizard takes halting steps between the trees, leaning against another and grimacing. "Everything you think you know, question it! Everyone you think you trust, question them!"

"The cold's getting to you," Magnus scowls up at the lament. Without it he'd be able to conjure an adequate glowsphere, "Come back to where it's warm! My apprentice is taking care of the mess! You can talk to me there!"

"I'm sorry, Holt! You seem like a good man!" Pain flashes up the wizard's side. Grunting, he lifts his shirt. The wetness he feels there is warmer, thicker. Contingency after contingency.

Magnus closes in on the wizard's voice, wand brandished. Screams. Feral screams of an acute agony that propels the officer further and faster. What is he doing?

Panting heavily, the wizard lifts his hand from the wound he cauterized with a simple fire spell. Healing spells are taxing and require incredible doses of skill and patience, both of which he lacks at this moment. But the pain leeches his consciousness. The wizard pushes from one tree to the next, leaning on his staff as he retreats further into the forest.

It's all too much. He sees red, his vision vignettes. Stumbling and tripping over a protruding root, the wizard collapses at the foot of a great pine. There he lies, trying to steady his breathing and push on. To get away.

"There you are."

A terrible dread clamps his chest.

The sorceress who stands over him is beautiful, in a way that is twisted and wicked. The rain and wind bends around her so that she's perfectly dry and comfortable, her black main of hair tumbling over face and shoulders. Dark lips curl into a beguiling smirk, showing pearlescent teeth as she dips into a crouch before the felled wizard.

"Do you like my storm?"

Ragged breathing. A cough. "Deeply."

"You're hurt." She moves his jacket aside to examine the scorch mark where the gash had been. The skin there has become a red and gnarled scar in the shape of a spread hand.

"Kinda."

The sorceress's pale blue orbs search the wizard's face for a moment, and her fingers raise to trace his stubbled jaw. He flinches back, grimacing.

"I take it the book is gone?"

Another cough. "Maybe."

"You amuse me, Fallow."

"Aw shucks."

"Where'd you go, friend?" Magnus Holt's calls could be heard in the distance, over the sound of rumbles and rainfall, "I thought we were gaining some headway!"

The sorceress stands, facing from where the officer's voice came. "Who is that?"

"Du… dunno."

"Making friends already, are we?" She licks her lips anxiously, shifting to one foot to the other as her bright eyes dart about.

"He doesn't… have-,"

"Shhhhh, sh, sh," crouching down again, the sorceress presses a forefinger to his lips, "Mommy's thinking."

The wizard holds his breath against her finger, wizened to what she is capable of with just a touch. In the close distance, a branch snaps, followed by a swear. Magnus was close, much too close.

"So," the sorceress whispers to the wizard, "Which is it?" she stands, facing from where the sound of Magnus's approach came from, "Your new friend, or that cat?"

By answer, the wizard suddenly lunges up. "Ignotia!" He strikes her shoulder, and where the staff meets her dress white flames burst and sputter. Through blind agony and fear, the wizard flees again.

A wrathful shriek chases him. The hairs on his neck stand upright as the air around him crackles and pops with a gathering of horrifying forces. There's a small clearing ahead where a decaying well slouches. Her view of him is open.

Okay.

When the sorceress hurls her spear of congealing lightning at the wizard, he spins and holds his staff before him. All of his energy is poured into a single, coalesced wall of will. One that holds back the torrents of crackling forces that writhe against his barrier.

For a moment, he feels that he might have succeeded.

A crack snakes down the haft of the wizard's staff. More join it, and in his hands the wizard's staff splits in two, giving way to the bolt of lightning that strikes him and throws his smoking form back.

An unthinkable agony tears through him, and momentarily strips him of all thought and sense as he's airborne.

He vaguely aware that he will die, and as he closes his hazel eyes a goofy smile finds him. Dirty little hands, and the sun-kissed face of the girl he calls daughter. What will she think of him now? Would she even recognize him? Does she know that all that he's done, all this futile rebellion is for her? He will never see her again, he realizes. His beautiful little girl, who will learn soon enough of what he's become.

I had no choice, baby. I wish I could tell you that.

As the mouth of the well rises to greet the wizard, a spike of mad humor tempts a wry grin.

The fate of the world rests on my cat.

o 0 o

JubileePretentiousName Presents…

An unabridged production

~~~ Mystified ~~~

Written by Jubilee, Edited and Reviewed by kramer53

Magics Index

Aerotransit - A system of trains that travel over the clouds, secret to those outside the Society of Mystics.

Alltongue Charm - A tricky mystical object that gives the wearer the ability to understand and speak every spoken language. Take the bark from a yew tree, carve into its face the celtic rune for mouth, and dip it in a stream unbesmirched by wicked things. It's quite the handy tool for travel, and every roaming mystic tries to keep one with them at all times.

Ignotia - A violent spell that summons white-hot flames. It's a clever combination of quasi-latin and Greek roots, where magic runs deep.

Soulgaze - Beware the eyes of a wizard. Should he desire, he will discover your deepest secrets and greatest fears.

Solas - A spell commonly used to construct glowspheres. It is the summoning and bending of light, and if called upon with great power behind it, is capable of blinding the fool who doesn't look away.

Wizard's Staff - A channel of focus for a wizard, wielded mainly by those who have trouble containing their destructive capabilities. It's an old-fashioned piece of work; mystics nowadays prefer wands and rings.