Ch 1: Good Things Come in Fives
Thunder cracked outside the stone tower. The farmer had no qualms with plodding into Rasmodius's study soaking wet for their bi-weekly visit, and the wizard didn't seem to notice. Despite his attention mostly wrapped up in arcane geometries and the occult law of fives, Rasmodius was grateful for the farmer coming to call. He allowed these brief interruptions to his solitary life of study, he told himself, because the farmer was a catalyst for phenomena he had seldom chance to observe. Forming too much attachment would be unwise, of course. But it did not seem that the risk of such an occurrence was at all substantial. The farmer, though persistent in their pursuit of involvement with Rasmodius and his dealings, was quite succinct and did not meddle or stay overlong. Rasmodius was snapped out of his trance-like state when he heard the word "five." As the farmer finished the phrase, the wizard's thoughts melded together into something almost like paying attention. "Five lumps of ore to smelt a single bar, " the farmer had said. "Ah yes," Rasmodius replied, "there do seem to be a lot of fives involved in everything - have you noticed it too?"
The farmer had not. They had been busy all morning smelting iron bars for Clint the blacksmith so that he could produce some tool or another. Though upon reflection, the farmer remarked that Clint's price for this service had been 5000 coins. The wizard sported a knowing smile, regarding the farmer in all their soggy candor.
"An auspicious number" Rasmodius nodded, making a wide sweeping gesture with his hand, "wherever there are fives, mysticism is bound to follow."
The farmer interjected that Rasmodius had only a moment ago claimed that fives were involved with everything. The wizard wiggled his fingers-a gesture that looked rather silly to the farmer, "Of course they are... of course they are. It is only when you start to notice them that the magic catches up to you."
Magic and mystery and fives aside, the farmer said, they couldn't argue with Clint's work. He was a blacksmith that came from many generations of blacksmiths and knew what he was doing. His craftsmanship was not embellished or ostentatious, just simple quality, durability, and utility. The farmer eagerly showed off the watering can Clint made for them this morning. The culmination of five sets of five iron ores melted down into five iron bars, crafted by hand-hands with five fingers, even-for a sum of 5,000 coins. If it were not for the abundance of fives, Rasmodius may not have paid the watering can any attention whatsoever. As it was, he excitedly enquired if anything else relating to the can had come in fives. As it turned out, Clint had offered to make five kinds of tools for the farmer if they brought him the right materials: Axes, hoes, trash cans, pickaxes, and watering cans.
The wizard was elated. Five fives! Most auspicious indeed. "A vessel of excellent qualities," he muttered as he examined the watering can, taking it in his hands."forgive me for the imposition, but it does rouse ones curiosity. May I?"
The farmer did not at all understand Rasmodius's intention, and offered only a sudden exhale.
"Excellent!" The robed figure brought the watering can to his steaming cauldron and held it high above, speaking an incantation that echoed through his cylindrical stone home like the breath of sound through a trumpet. Lightning crashed into the top of the coned roof with a resounding bang. For a fleeting moment the watering can seemed to emit a soft Green Glow. Rasmodius turned back to face the farmer with a smug expression. "Everything has now been made clear, I expect?"
The farmer informed him as politely as possible that nothing at all was made clear and that everything that had just happened had only served to confuse them further. Rasmodius handed the watering can back to the farmer with a sort of reverence, swishing his cape behind him. "What you have here is an enchanted object. Though the potency of its magic is no greater than a whisper, it is of an ancient sort. A tradition obscured even from me, with its roots buried deep in the history of this valley."
The farmer expressed their skepticism of this claim, reminding their friend that the watering can had only been fashioned earlier that same day. How could such a thing be possible?
"Impossible things are happening every day," Rasmodius muttered with a distant look in his eye. "I must research this matter further. Immediately. Though the only known records of such magic..." He trailed off, turning away from the farmer. His brow furrowed. He knit his hands together. After a protracted silence he spoke again, "The Deepsong Enchanter's tomes were once part of this library, but are here no longer. I remember pieces and bits of what I gleaned from their pages but it has been many years. The errors of time creep in, playing tricks on the framework of understanding. What I mean to say is that my memory of such documents - beyond the most general subject matter - is unreliable." The wizard's posture stiffened and his voice fell flat, "Regrettably, my ex-wife who currently has them in her possession is not likely to prioritize the permeation of knowledge above her petty quarrel with me. I… I hesitate to inquire if I might borrow them from her. She might turn my tongue into that of a toad, which could take me all evening to fix. Or worse, coming to her for my research might make me appear desperate. Pathetic even. I will have to pursue an alternative source of information."
The farmer offered half jokingly to steal the books on his behalf, but Rasmodius did not entertain the idea. Instead, the two settled on plans to speak to Clint in his shop the next day.