From mountain smote, through the foothills, the wilds and wastes have I travelled. All that I had is left behind, all that was unnecessary, all that was weak. Now only the truest Ulesorin remains, awash with arcane might and stripped of the fetters I bound myself with these past years. Fetters like a comfortable bed, hot meals and why in the blazes did I think that this was a good idea? I haven’t even a single imp or kobold to do my bidding. I had to make a campfire to warm my tootsies all by myself this evening and I have to tell you; the Cataclysmic Firestorm spell is less effective for that purpose than you might have supposed.

Could it be that I have acted in error? Could my reasoning have been interfered with by the vile workings of the wood-elves’ shining-moon liquor? I say nay! Of course not. I am no tavern-wrecked bard, to have my head turned at the taste of some intoxicating brew. My reasoning is sound. If the foul dragon is slain then I shall most assuredly inherit those parts of my own estate that she claimed in our divorce. Perhaps my visitation rights for the serpent-man army might even be restored! And so easily is my wavering volition hardened once more into a lance of purpose.

You may ask yourselves; how can it be that even in these wild places I can still answer your letters? It is simple. In my satchel I carry the world storm, trapped within a bottle so that I may still receive your vital communications. Plot hole resolved! With magic!

***

Dear Ulesorin,

The barbarian ate my spell book. Please help.

Sincerely,

Spat Scraps

***

My dear Scraps,

I have never understood the propensity of barbarians to chew upon things. If it is not the dried hide of some wild beast then it is the rim of their shields. If it is not the rim of their shields, then it is the reins of their horse as they ride it into battle with an axe in each hand. As if this were not enough cause for slobber, there is also the frothing at the mouth when they enter their barbarous frenzies. It is almost worth preparing a spell of protection from back-splash just to get through a day in their company.

In the future, it would be advisable to keep your belongings well out of the bestial adventurer’s reach, perhaps in some sort of pocket dimension where only those versed in the arcane arts might access them, but that glimmer of hindsight is of no help to you now. It is your future that we must now concentrate upon, in particular the few minutes of it that are left if you do not have any means to prepare your spells.

Conveniently enough for you, I recently found myself in a similar dilemma. All of the spell books that I accumulated throughout the ages were lost to me with the destruction of my tower library and I was forced to start over with nothing, except for an eidetic memory full of spells and all of the materials that once contained immense magic. Using those scraps and memories I was able to draw out the essence of my great magics and inscribe them anew on a new surface.

I realise that your current location is unlikely to hold a great abundance of ruined scrolls and magical tomes, but you have something almost as good. The broad expanse of a moronic barbarian, already infused with the arcane power of your spell-book. Traditional calligraphy may fail to leave the required marks on the barbarian’s skin, and may not impart the significance of the error that they have made, so I would suggest tattooing the necessary information instead, all that you need is a nice rusty needle and some dark liquid to use as ink. Both should be readily available within a dungeon setting. Consider a caltrop as a viable alternative to a needle. Should the barbarian object to this treatment, remind them that it is their own fault for eating your book, appeal to their sense of honour. Barbarians are suckers for that sort of thing.

Failing that, I would suggest that you do what wizards have done since time immemorial when their spells are spent and they have not the means to restore them. Hide behind the big dumb meaty man while the monsters hit him, until such time as you can escape and purchase a new spell-book.

***

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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 1794-year-old man who lives alone in a tower with nothing but the distant memories of past glories for company.