It had been a good day, Raistlin reflected as he pulled the last Kleenex from the box and blew his nose. Last night, with Dalamar still out of town on business in Wayreth, Raistlin had decided it was long past time for some pampering. So today Raistlin had slept late, he'd taken a bubble bath, he'd had his morning tea while reading the comics, and he'd even watched Beaches while sitting on the sofa in his black, silver-trimmed bathrobe.
He tossed the empty tissue box aside, and an obedient guardian appeared to spirit it away to the recycling bin downstairs.
"What to do now?" Raistlin wondered aloud, nibbling quizzically on one flame-red nail -- he'd painted his nails after the bath, and he was proud to say that even his toenails were a dainty crimson. The varnish had survived the night without so much as a chip or smudge, despite Raistlin's biting habit.
The archmage's golden eyes looked around restlessly. In the middle of the room stood the big bed with black silk sheets. Raistlin laughed to himself.
"It may look like nothing more than scraps of fabric and dust if I stare at it too long with these cursed eyes of mine," Raistlin said, addressing the world in general, "but that doesn't change the facts: that bed has *memories.*" Raistlin smiled as his eyes drifted over the slightly rumpled blankets. Why, he could clearly recall each and every memorable occasion he'd enjoyed between those silk sheets...
But, no, that train of thought was no good with Dalamar out of town. Raistlin sighed.
Well, there was Raistlin's desk. He could always finish up the Creating Life thing; after all, the Live Ones were looking pretty grim these days, what with the Pool of Seeing's cable on the fritz.
"No," Raistlin said after considering it for a moment. "This is *me* time. The magic can wait." He nodded primly to himself and stood up, hands on his hips, looking at the other side of the room.
There stood Raistlin's bookcase, stacked high with dark magical volumes and old editions of Vogue. Raistlin shook his head; he just didn't feel like doing magic right now, either in his lab or with his makeup.
There was Dalamar's desk, probably locked as usual and full of gods-knew-how-many of the dark elf's strange and unusual belongings.
"I wouldn't do that," a disembodied, ethereal voice murmured in Raistlin's ear.
"Oh, pooh," Raistlin said, waving a hand at the spectral guardian. "There's a desk full of Dalamar's strange and unusual belongings in *my* bedroom, and I haven't ever rooted through said belongings before. What could it hurt?"
"Relationships are supposed to be founded on love and trust, which implies complete honesty," the disembodied, ethereal voice remarked philosophically. "Sneaking through Dalamar's desk when he's gone violates that trust."
"Oh, shut up," Raistlin said crossly. The archmage crossed his arms in the sleeves of his bathrobe, feeling a little pouty. "When did my bloody *spectral minions* get so bleeding *moralistic?*" he asked disgustedly, addressing the air around him dramatically. "What happened to cruel and terrifying undead guardians? But no, they're all off about love and trust now! It's a regular episode of Sesame Street, this is!"
"I heard that," the disembodied, ethereal voice said, sounding rather miffed.
"Shove it, you!" Raistlin snapped. The disembodied, ethereal voice wisely chose not to reply, despite the fact that it had a biting retort involving its master and Oscar the Grouch readily on hand.
Raistlin glared around into the air for a few moments before he satisfied himself that his nosy minions were all out of the room, and then he walked lightly over to Dalamar's desk and sat down in the elf's wheely office chair. He shuffled through a few of the papers on the desk -- spellbooks, taxes, bills, and a few letters from Wayreth. Raistlin snorted.
"Par-Salian's been trying to get into Dal's pants for years," he mused wryly, pocketing a couple of the letters. "I'd like to see what sort of things the old goat has to say! I'll bet he even-- hello, what's this?" Raistlin noticed something brightly-colored near the back of the desk and he picked it up.
"PLAYGIRL, ISSUE 23, VOLUME 2" the cover declared in bold red letters. A rather provocative photo of a smiling, much more than half-nude Tanis Half-Elven decorated the cover. Raistlin shuddered and dropped the magazine like it had bit him. He stared at it, his face going two shades paler and then flushing bright crimson -- an effect which sort of made Raistlin's golden skin seem to glow yellow, bronzed, and then a sort of orange.
Truth be told, all this would have made for really a very interesting show of chameleon pyrotechnics had there been anyone there to see it. Of course, a the undead minions of the Tower of Palanthas glance up from their ongoing game of Risk now and then to see what's going on, and odds have it that one of them might have seen this Technicolor marvel in progress, but the fact remains that the true artistry of the moment was lost, as all spectral guardians are all colorblind.
It's common knowledge.
Positively seething, Raistlin he picked up the magazine and very deliberately hurled it across the room, muttering a few magic words.
The provocatively smiling Half-Elven burst into flames halfway across the room and hit the floor as no more than ashes, which promptly blew themselves away. Raistlin nodded and brushed his hands off, feeling satisfied.
"Dal doesn't need *that* when he's got me," he said, crossing the room again. He sat down on the sofa, wiggled his toes in his bunny slippers, and clicked on the TV feeling righteous and contented.
" `Tanis's Secret Guide to Steamier Sex,' indeed!" Raistlin chuckled dryly, reaching for the bowl popcorn.
He tossed the empty tissue box aside, and an obedient guardian appeared to spirit it away to the recycling bin downstairs.
"What to do now?" Raistlin wondered aloud, nibbling quizzically on one flame-red nail -- he'd painted his nails after the bath, and he was proud to say that even his toenails were a dainty crimson. The varnish had survived the night without so much as a chip or smudge, despite Raistlin's biting habit.
The archmage's golden eyes looked around restlessly. In the middle of the room stood the big bed with black silk sheets. Raistlin laughed to himself.
"It may look like nothing more than scraps of fabric and dust if I stare at it too long with these cursed eyes of mine," Raistlin said, addressing the world in general, "but that doesn't change the facts: that bed has *memories.*" Raistlin smiled as his eyes drifted over the slightly rumpled blankets. Why, he could clearly recall each and every memorable occasion he'd enjoyed between those silk sheets...
But, no, that train of thought was no good with Dalamar out of town. Raistlin sighed.
Well, there was Raistlin's desk. He could always finish up the Creating Life thing; after all, the Live Ones were looking pretty grim these days, what with the Pool of Seeing's cable on the fritz.
"No," Raistlin said after considering it for a moment. "This is *me* time. The magic can wait." He nodded primly to himself and stood up, hands on his hips, looking at the other side of the room.
There stood Raistlin's bookcase, stacked high with dark magical volumes and old editions of Vogue. Raistlin shook his head; he just didn't feel like doing magic right now, either in his lab or with his makeup.
There was Dalamar's desk, probably locked as usual and full of gods-knew-how-many of the dark elf's strange and unusual belongings.
"I wouldn't do that," a disembodied, ethereal voice murmured in Raistlin's ear.
"Oh, pooh," Raistlin said, waving a hand at the spectral guardian. "There's a desk full of Dalamar's strange and unusual belongings in *my* bedroom, and I haven't ever rooted through said belongings before. What could it hurt?"
"Relationships are supposed to be founded on love and trust, which implies complete honesty," the disembodied, ethereal voice remarked philosophically. "Sneaking through Dalamar's desk when he's gone violates that trust."
"Oh, shut up," Raistlin said crossly. The archmage crossed his arms in the sleeves of his bathrobe, feeling a little pouty. "When did my bloody *spectral minions* get so bleeding *moralistic?*" he asked disgustedly, addressing the air around him dramatically. "What happened to cruel and terrifying undead guardians? But no, they're all off about love and trust now! It's a regular episode of Sesame Street, this is!"
"I heard that," the disembodied, ethereal voice said, sounding rather miffed.
"Shove it, you!" Raistlin snapped. The disembodied, ethereal voice wisely chose not to reply, despite the fact that it had a biting retort involving its master and Oscar the Grouch readily on hand.
Raistlin glared around into the air for a few moments before he satisfied himself that his nosy minions were all out of the room, and then he walked lightly over to Dalamar's desk and sat down in the elf's wheely office chair. He shuffled through a few of the papers on the desk -- spellbooks, taxes, bills, and a few letters from Wayreth. Raistlin snorted.
"Par-Salian's been trying to get into Dal's pants for years," he mused wryly, pocketing a couple of the letters. "I'd like to see what sort of things the old goat has to say! I'll bet he even-- hello, what's this?" Raistlin noticed something brightly-colored near the back of the desk and he picked it up.
"PLAYGIRL, ISSUE 23, VOLUME 2" the cover declared in bold red letters. A rather provocative photo of a smiling, much more than half-nude Tanis Half-Elven decorated the cover. Raistlin shuddered and dropped the magazine like it had bit him. He stared at it, his face going two shades paler and then flushing bright crimson -- an effect which sort of made Raistlin's golden skin seem to glow yellow, bronzed, and then a sort of orange.
Truth be told, all this would have made for really a very interesting show of chameleon pyrotechnics had there been anyone there to see it. Of course, a the undead minions of the Tower of Palanthas glance up from their ongoing game of Risk now and then to see what's going on, and odds have it that one of them might have seen this Technicolor marvel in progress, but the fact remains that the true artistry of the moment was lost, as all spectral guardians are all colorblind.
It's common knowledge.
Positively seething, Raistlin he picked up the magazine and very deliberately hurled it across the room, muttering a few magic words.
The provocatively smiling Half-Elven burst into flames halfway across the room and hit the floor as no more than ashes, which promptly blew themselves away. Raistlin nodded and brushed his hands off, feeling satisfied.
"Dal doesn't need *that* when he's got me," he said, crossing the room again. He sat down on the sofa, wiggled his toes in his bunny slippers, and clicked on the TV feeling righteous and contented.
" `Tanis's Secret Guide to Steamier Sex,' indeed!" Raistlin chuckled dryly, reaching for the bowl popcorn.