Wasted Spell
by Scott Wilson
Fjordral
stands atop a grassy hill, the sun glinting off
her golden hair, rippling in the warm breeze. She
absent-mindedly rubbed the gem studded hilt of
her new broadsword, and glanced over at the dwarf
and elf, bickering about how to load the horses.
The magic-user, Swinzfat, has memorized her
spells, all two of them, and says she’s
ready to go. That is if they can agree upon how
their packs should go, and they eventually leave
the small village of Hamlet.
Rumours of a
dangerous dungeon full of treasure from recently
deceased old wizard Genkran, in the mountain
nearby lured this motley band of inexperienced
adventurers together. None of the group has
journeyed far from Hamlet before; this would be
their first major adventure.
“Ah, ah-choo,”
Swinzfat sneezed harshly.
A cloud of
wispy, white smoke rose from the spot the elf and
dwarf previously stood.
“I
thought you’d taken something for that hay
fever?” Fjordral said, looking at the
tendrils of smoke dissipating from the magic-user’s
fingertips.
|
