Ask the Wizard – The January Blues
Good morrow to you kindly folk, that walk such feeble mortal lives. I come amongst you as a god, my words wrought in lightning upon these fantasy hives. Tis’ I once more, Ulesorin the Green, the most powerful wizard your world has ever seen. And if your lives be full of strife, then read on, friend; it may just save your life.
Forgive me, dear readers, for a time this past month I was cursed into the form of a mirror standing guard over an ancient treasure, and while throwing off the polymorphia was little more than sleight of hand to one a puissant as I, there remains something accursedly pleasing in making my words rhyme. Resist as I might.
But you do not come to hear of my woes, do you, dearest readers? You come so that I may lift your troubles from your shoulders and replace them with a new head filled with such wisdom you shall make your fellows weep in astonishment. To the question, then, that vexes one of you precious, short-lived creatures, without another moment wasted. For while I may tarry upon a puzzle for years, nay centuries, if it please me, you have no such luck.
Chromatically Challenged writes:
Hey Wizard guy. If you are called Ulesorin the Green, then why are your robes clearly blue?
Given the infinite wisdom of the most profound intelligence in all of the planes at your disposal, to answer any one question, you choose to pursue this line? Every trouble that plagues your world, every injury that you have suffered, all of them are within my mind’s reach to mend, and given all of that your question regards haberdashery? And not some incredible feat of haberdashery, like the Great Barrier of K’mutzka, but instead some petty matter of robe colouration?! This is the answer that you seek?!
My kobold attorney informs me that I must answer every question I receive in this manner to fulfil the agreement that I have writ upon the very parchments of the Law within the allied Kingdoms of Light. This service to the community shall be carried out, but know this; I resent each word that I must speak on this matter, and you, Chromatically Challenged, you shall know the weight of my vengeance in due time.
When a wizard in my world completes his training, he is granted a colour, based upon the magic which comes the most naturally to him. For necromancers, delicate lilac is granted, so that the fine veil between the world of the living and the dead can be perceived within. For dullards and invokers, there are the red robes. Yellow is for those who have mastered water-magics, black for those who engage in hardcore binding rituals and green for those who have proven themselves to be the masters of the very natural forces that must be kept in balance lest the planes tear themselves asunder.
Aye, ‘twas to this lofty rank that I rose. And it was at this lofty rank I set out to do great acts of heroism in the world. Amidst those great acts was the seduction of the Great Wyrm, known to those in the east as Daggermaw, to those in the west as The Furnace that Stalks, and known to me and me alone as Pookie. Through my wiles, I was able to prevent the wyrm’s wrath from falling upon many a defenceless kingdom and through my amorous advances, an entirely new race of lizard-men was born into the world. But amidst it all the conniving wyrm had a plan of revenge. For as I seduced the Wyrm, so too did the Wyrm seduce me. So it was that when I was at my most defenceless, beard tussled and scrawny chest awash with sweat, I was tricked and bound with a magical ring into an eternity of bondage.
It mattered not to the Ulesorin of that moment, awash with lust and magic, but to the Ulesorin of the day after it mattered greatly, for let it be known that the Great Wyrm Daggermaw has never washed a dish in the entirety of its millennial lifespan and also that it delighted – I say delighted – in pressing its cold scales upon me when I lay asleep, thereby robbing me of my rest and the restoration of the spells that I had used in the previous day. This would not stand, and so I went forth, Kobold underarm, to the courts of Law and demanded that my bondage be severed.
Rightly was the ring struck from my hand, rightly was I set free once more to pursue nubile elves, sensuous orcs and the nymphs of the stream, but oh so wrongly was it decided that a full half of my property should be handed over to that wretched Wyrm along with payments from each treasure trove I plundered in the year to come for the care and feeding of my already fully grown reptilian babes.
I would not have it, dear Chromatically Challenged, I could not tolerate this monstrous titan possessing my wealth and wonderous magical items, for who could know what evil might have been wrought with them? In one great conflagration, my tower was destroyed, my gold melted to naught and the Wyrm’s “rights” denied! It was a heroic act that would not go unpunished.
The Court of Law decreed that I must divide the only thing that I had left to my name. My robes of green were rent in twain, with the yellow going to the Wyrm and the blue to clothe my wrinkled, wretched body. The final insult in a long line of them.
I hope that this satisfies your curiosity, dear Challenged. For it has brought this old wizard back to the verge of tears, and now I am really wondering why I didn’t fire that damn kobold then and there.
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*Disclaimer: All answers are provided for entertainment purposes only. It may not be in your best interests to follow advice provided by a 1793-year-old man who lives alone in a tower with nothing but animated furniture for company.