Ask the Wizard – Tooth or Dare
Hail and well met, you pitiful mayflies. ‘Tis I returned to you once more: The highlight of your pointless lives. The joy of your reading screens. The ecstasy of your slightly confusing dreams. Ulesorin the Green, Ant of Agonies and bearer of unbearable wisdom.
My immense intellect has toppled empires, placed crowns on the heads of stable-boys, confounded the greatest minds of three generations of arcanists, rent the fire from the stars above by pure incisive wit and now the full weight of that mind is here to be brought to bear upon your most frivolous of problems. Why would I squander my brilliance in this way, you might ask? Am I attempting to undertake a service to the multiversal community so that a certain child custody judgement may be reversed and my army of half-dragon half-wizard reptilian spawn are returned to me? Surely not. Surely, I serve only out of the kindness of my heart – and any comment to the contrary may very well result in a lightning bolt darting through the dark spaces between our worlds to strike you firmly upon your slanderous rump.
Regardless, it is time to press on to the question of the day, a question of a dentological nature!
Long in the Tooth writes:
Several years ago I broke my front teeth by dropping an iPad on—er, in a mighty battle. I have fake replacements now, but they’re slowly yellowing despite my efforts. Do you have any solutions? Something inexpensive and quick-acting? Much appreciated!
Speak my name when you address me, cur, for I am the fury of the storm brought to bear upon worms such as thee.
I am informed by my legal kobold that I must answer messages regardless of the churlish manner in which I am addressed, so I shall. But be aware that the advice I give to those such as ye will be barely adequate to resolve all of your troubles when it could instead have uplifted you to greater glory than you had ever dreamed to achieve.
Battle-wounds are a common sight upon my companions. Often have they flung themselves in the path of the slings and arrows of monstrous beasts and blackguards in my defence, and sometimes they even did so willingly.
I am given to understand that peg-legs, hook hands and eye-patches are the norm for the common adventurer, but this may be the first time that I have come upon peg-teeth. I assume that you have placed some form of ivory or bone within your vacuous maw, and as such the process of cleansing these false teeth should be simple enough.
Travel to the nearest dungeon, preferably one large enough to have acquired a sufficient enough body count over the years that the locals cower in fear at the very mention of its name. Once you have found this place, descend within, slaying all manner of nightmarish creatures, disarming the lethal traps and solving the atrocious puzzles using the power of your incredible mind. At last you will come upon a certain area within the dungeon – it may be called the bone-pit, the corpse heap or something equally colourful. It is there that the dungeon biome provides a home to scavengers and necrophages, and it is there that you must seek out the carnivorous ooze known to some as a Burn Jelly, to others as a Gelatinous Cube and to most as “What is that weird green light in the next room, I really must have a look. Oh no, I am stuck. Argh. It is dissolving me. It is dissolving me. Why are you just standing there, wizard? Why don’t you do something? Ah. Ah. It hurts. Oh gods. Uuuuarghuuuhhhh.”
Once you have identified this creature, simply pop out your teeth, toss them inside and wait for about twelve minutes until the bones are stripped and bleached bare. Repeat as necessary until such time as your own teeth can be regenerated by your local healer or wise crone, and remember to be polite to wizards when you write to them if you don’t want to become intimately familiar with the colour of your own intestines the next time you sneeze.
Email your problems to firstname.lastname@example.org with the subject ‘Ask the Wizard’. Or leave a comment below. Having relationship issues? Need career advice? You name it, our ‘Agony Ant’ can help!*
*Disclaimer: All answers are provided for entertainment purposes only. It may not be in your best interests to follow advice provided by a 1794-year-old man who lives alone in a tower with nothing but animated furniture for company.