KHADGAR LOST HIS PIPE
Mages never forget. That's the first rule of being a mage. You have to memorise, to know every spell better than a mortal might, because we are to become practitioners of something more than mortal, and become so ourselves. The Demons have no sympathy for meddlers who cast improperly and with weaknesses.
The cowled and cloaked figure entered the inn, his face hidden in shadow, cleverly avoiding the light as if by accident; but somehow avoiding every oil lamp, a dozen times in rapid succession of subtle movement, was no accident.
He had come here to rest, not be disturbed, for the events of the day, the week even, weighed heavily on him, although his robes were light as mage should wear.
The figure stopped before the counter. Somehow no-one saw him. But he saw something. Held in a receptacle stood by a stand, was a pipe, being displayed for the parishioners.
"Ah, there's my pipe," he muttered softly. In the hands of plebians, no less. Some fancy decoration to make someone's counter more interesting. Although with its emerald setting that capped its end when wanted, the whirls and whorls in its structure that seemed random, but followed a sure magical path that spoke to anyone with the eyes to see them, it was certainly interesting.
For Khadgar, it made a good pipe. At least I look the part, now. He thought ironically, still feeling unused to the age that Medivh had artificially cursed him with. Although the oddity of the curse made it a little more bearable than the infirm age brought to most – his strength and health had not left him.
He only wished that wisdom came with mere appearances. He was not precisely a young man anymore in any case, so he had at least settled into it, like oddly fitting clothes.
Somehow, no-one saw him as he took it, and with a few small movements that described an activity no-one could see, he placed the pipe in his mouth and puffed.
Sitting down, he ordered a glass of watered wine from the barkeep. The man saw his eyes and did not question the order, nor did he visibly show his concern at their colour, to his credit.
A woman, sultry patroness of the night, sidled over to him, spying perhaps a rich, searching customer, and brave enough to overcome the slight warning of his bowed shoulders, the enigma and slight hint of danger that surrounded him.
It would be simple enough for him to dissuade her through an art, but he was not so impolite as that. She would not understand, and that would confuse her, and Khadgar, as a principle, liked people to understand. He had found it was the best way to make choices about one's own destiny, even when those choices seemed impossible.
Khadgar was one of the most powerful magi in the lands, taught by the mighty Medivh, the Guardian who wielded all the powers of sorcery to defend the mortal world against the demon threat. The Prophet, he was later known as, when people had forgotten who he was; for his powers reached beyond any other known in the realms, single-handedly he could brush away the cobwebs obscuring Fate, and read it like a book to any who would hear.
Khadgar didn't hear. He wouldn't listen. He didn't want to. He loved his mentor, even when he despaired as his master fell, his soul become ravaged by the very demons he was meant to protect the world against, poisoned in the womb by a fel power who knew his threat. Sargeras, the god of the demons himself.
Medivh's mother had been the previous Guardian, illicitly deciding to transfer her power to her own son against the orders of the Order, the Kirin Tor magi; and she had been the one who proved Sargeras' destroyer even at his full might. Khadgar had never forgotten the terrifying power that history evidenced, even as a mere tale it astounded him. Sargeras had been a Titan, the most powerful of them, creators of worlds and orderers of the universe. Those who wielded such cosmic power, mighty beyond measure, and not the creatures who learned at their feet, but the very gods that wielded the natural power of creation itself, that put these things in their place into the cosmos – that it made mortal mastery of magic little more than old men stirring their tea and looking for patterns in the remaining leaves. Even the Daemons had been unable to resist Sargeras when he had been their enemy, and not their leader. Even if they had proved his undoing in the end. So Medivh had said, although Khadgar had not always understood what he meant sometimes.
The power they had created on this world was an immense work, and no wonder all creation, the dark titan included, had hungered for it.
He himself was powerful. Magic was such. A Guardian… was all-powerful. And yet, he was a protégé, meant to somehow walk in those footsteps.
A mage is better by wisdom, than by all the stolen energies in the world, young Khadgar. He remembered the voice. But that is not all you were, master. You were wiser than us all.
Medivh had chuckled. I never said otherwise, did I? But even I, as you well know, had my limits. Even with all my gifts, I was weak. I failed. You must become better than I was – let my weakness be your teacher, not my words.
"I will try, master," he muttered to himself, wondering at that old ghost. Such a power he was, that the thought of Medivh never truly left him. What were the dimensions of life and death, the parting of distance or even the grave, to such a man, to one who saw all?
And what about his weaknesses? What would they teach him?
And what secrets was Khadgar ferreting out? For he although he thought himself the student then, he realised he was only truly becoming a student now, not merely a child in the ways of magic.
Once I had thought only the Creative Spirit that illumines the universe, could accomplish such things. I learned that I was wrong. He paused, and made a puff on his pipe, emitting an almost invisible fragrance of the idea of smoke. … And that's not such a bad thing.
There was a disturbance about the doorway he entered. A very familiar one, full of boisterous jolliness and crude bandy. Several adventurers were barging their way in without aplomb or dignity.
Ah, here they are now.
He had come not merely to rest, but to rest and wait for some particular fellows he knew were about their way.
They quickly seated themselves at the tables, the current occupants quickly occupying themselves elsewhere. It wasn't the most respectable way to meet, but Khadgar let it go.
He turned to look at them directly, letting them know he was there. A good six. Companions he knew. Strong, and they would make the journey well and still be able to fight if needed.
He ordered them drinks, and swiftly counselled them on what needed doing, the pay and so forth, the arrangements and routes, but he did this surreptitiously, via notes he passed that none by their proper recipients could read.
The Dwarven woman, Magda, came and sat down next to him, almost crashing in the stool, her enormous one-handed maul creaking against floor-boards as she settled it down almost gently. Her cup was already dry, although it had barely touched her callused, battle-strengthened hands.
"An' wot are we about then, exactly, wizard? You're not too forth-coming about the name o' this place. Why not say it out loud? Who would be fool enough to follow us?" The Orc that sat quietly in the corner, minding his oddity, barked a laugh at this but said no more. This produced a sharp grin from her for a moment, quickly squashed. "So? What about it, wizard?"
She lifted the tankard and inspected its insides as if for a prophecy, then announced the finding loudly with a belch. For such a good-looking Dwarven woman her appetites went both ways with disturbing equality.
"We're going to Medivh's tower," he said, and although he was not a prophet, it was with the pronouncement of something like doom.