Greetings one and all, Ulesorin here, your most favourite wizard. If you consider that I’m the only wizard that has ever deigned to actually speak with you, I suspect you will find that there are many reasons for me to be your favourite. I am unlike those big celebrity wizards, your Goomgulfs and Bumblemores, because I am here, for you, willing to speak to you despite your myriad aromas.

Such aromas.

***

I need advice.  My son is afflicted with sharp tongue.  The more pissed off he gets, apologies for the common speak, the more articulate in this language he becomes. I am laid in ribbons with every bout.  How do I cure him?

An apparently bothersome mother.

***

Dear Bothersome,

It occurs to me that I do not recall ever having been a mother, or child, at any point in my illustrious history, and as such, I am forced to compare your current situation to those that were comparable in my own life. For instance, when I was but a young apprentice to Archameddon the Golden I was rather sharp of tongue myself. To remedy this situation, he waited for the next time that I expressed myself rudely towards him, and then banished me to the nightmare realm for what felt like seven thousand years but was apparently only the afternoon. After I re-learned how to express myself in manners other than primal screaming, I was markedly more polite. Even if Archameddon was ultimately a bumbling fool who I was forced to consign to the nightmare realm for all eternity for having the temerity to question my methods.

I wonder how old Archameddon is getting on. Presumably his sanity has been reduced to ashes by now, but physically, he’s probably also been reduced to ashes by now.

When an apprentice reaches a certain age, they begin to push boundaries and try to establish themselves as a wizard in their own right. Summoning demons, opening pocket dimensions and painting the walls black. Even I myself flung a few fireballs in old Archameddon’s direction during that phase in my growth, at least until I realised that his wards were too powerful for them to penetrate. And that was the key to making me stop flinging fireballs. When I realised that I could not actually hurt the old, gilded bastard, it became a wasted effort, it no longer allowed me to feel powerful.

As the adult in the situation, it tragically falls to you to be mature about matters, to set aside your feelings and show that they cannot be hurt by a few bitter words. Approach the problem in the manner of a practical issue rather than one of emotion, and you may find that your raging goblin child is quite capable of reason. “This behaviour reflects poorly on you, and on me as your mentor. If you continue to summon demonic armies without my permission, I will not be providing you with the grimoires to do so.”

Do not show fear or hurt in the face of the goblin, and withdraw the many kindnesses you doubtless provide, until such time as the youth realises that they are only harming themselves.

From the opposing perspective, I suppose that I have served as something of a parental figure or mentor to many a young adventurer through the years, and though many did sadly succumb to the meat-grinder of quests of dungeons, a few survived long enough to express their true feelings towards me. Usually via letter, what with their omnipresent fear of impending fireball should they misspeak to me.

I suspect that a great many of them were suffering from traumatic head injuries following their many adventures, given the manner in which they chose to express themselves, but fear not. 

There is a very simple cure for water on the brain. A tap on the head.

***

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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 and claims to have magical powers.