Selvian is not a wizard. His technical title is Aetheric Sorceretic Conjourous novice. Aetheric being the language of magic discovered and utilized by Magi, not to be confused with faith or nature-based systems. Sorceretic referencing his innate talent for magic. Sorcerers never need to study Aetheric, magic is like breathing to them. Sorceretic talents are much weaker, imagine a rowboat floating in the harbor next to a warship. They are both technically boats. One of them is just a tad more impressive. Conjurous for the school of his study; the science of calling things to you. And novice, meaning that he has not yet passed his apprentice exit exam.

  Magi get off to classifying and naming things, and so there are plenty of Magi with far more confusing titles than his. Evacaters are mostly focused on consuming as much food as possible to help deal with the biofeedback that comes with throwing around energy. They tend to be loud, bothersome, and fart more than any other creature I have ever met. Abjuritives like to put boundaries around everything. If one of them decides that your interactions should only ever take place in a library, they will do their best to pretend like you don't exist in any other context. And Necromancers... they just creep me out.

  Conjuration magic though, that's what really gets my blood pumping. And it's why I've been keeping my eye on Selvian. It's been ten years since he ran away from organized Aethiric schooling. Now he lives in a small cabin atop a small mountain near a small village called Casabe. It's a place where he can experiment in peace. The villagers feed him as long as he brews them potions and dishes out the occasional charm to keep wild fey from stealing their socks. It's a quiet existence, though not for much longer.

  His cabin is a mess of semi organized horizontal spaces. Shelves line the walls and are filled with various salts and dried herbs. At a small desk lies the discarded project he spent too much time working on last night. Selvian hasn't been respecting his sleep schedule and is likely taking months of his life as a result. I shouldn't be too critical; the sleep deprivation has made the engraving go slightly smoother.

  One of the worst things about Aetheric is that the language is almost never the same as it was just a moment before. You can start speaking the Aetheric word for fire and by the time you finish that word now means tiny pink elephant. You must rediscover each word as you speak it. And don't get me started on writing it down! Now engraving? That slow and tedious process is an absolute nightmare, but this little rascal did it.

  On his workstation there are dozens of thin copper bands covered in Aetheric script. And it all means what he meant it too mean. For the most part. I have some small gripes with the grammar and punctuation, but when you see a monkey writing poetry you can be mad if his pentameter is sloppy.

  Selvian is crouched there in front of the small wood burning stove that keeps his cottage from icing over. The fire went out while he was sleeping after he collapsed from exhaustion, and he used his last match to get the fire going the previous night. So, now he has to rely on his magic. As pitiful as it is.

  Eyes unfocused, Selvian searches for the beginning of his flame spell, but his poor little mind is simply too tired to pull anything coherent out of the fourth dimension. He focuses on being unfocused and feels the anticipation that comes right before you discover a spell that you have cast before. The air shifts subtly, the ground seems to be more firm. His lips begin to form a single word. And a man standing on his porch knocks roughly and calls out.

  "Wizard? Are you home?"

  The moment has changed and the spell that he was casting is gone, what comes out now is not a small spark of flame. It is the rippling charge of unfocused energy. The hairs on his arm stand on end and the small scar wound tightly beneath his left shoulder aches with the familiar tension of a dog kicked one too many times. His outstretched hand tenses as purple lighting arcs down to connect with the metal stove.

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  It isn't much. As I said Selvian isn't much of a sorcerer, but that small and unexpected jolt causes fear to fight its way to the front of his brain. Wizard. He thinks to himself. Has someone found out that the villagers are calling me wizard?

  There are only twelve wizards alive at any time. They are old and they have spent many years studying and fighting against their peers for the right to claim the title. The common folk may not be able to tell the difference, but a grouchy old wizard might smite a flunked-out novice for daring to call himself wizard. The panic that races down Selvian's spine would be enough to encourage a good soiling if he hadn't recently relieved himself. That and the lightning. Selvian hates lighting.

  "Selvian? We have a problem for our local wizard!"

  The voice is familiar though. Not one of the Magi sent to cull an upstart talent. One of the townsfolk. Berris. A baker. If Berris made it up to the porch without Selvian becoming aware of him, that meant something had happened to Gresselvig. Selvian fought down the panic from his encounter with the miniscule amount of lightning and felt a new surge of panic well up with concern for his familiar.

  Something had happened to Gresselvig. He had become outrageously drunk while left unsupervised. And the familiar was curled up and fighting off a hangover in his nest atop Selvian's cottage. Of course, Selvian could not know this. He was too busy being concerned.

  "I'm here." He called out. "Give me a minute."

  Selvian dumped tea leaves into the cold teapot he had been trying to heat with the fire. He glanced around the small cottage. Ensuring he hadn't left anything out that might be concerning to the baker. There were no bones or blood. No sigils carved ominously into the floor. And no demons fighting to break free from a binding circle. He opened the door.

  "Nine angels!" Berris cried out. "You could have gotten dressed before you opened the door."

  Selvian slammed the door and looked down at himself.

  Right. Clothes. Of course.

  When fully dressed he opened the door once more.

  "Sorry about that. It was a long night," Selvian muttered.

  "Ah, then maybe you already know, never quite sure how you wizards know so much," Berris responded. He did his best to appear confident. Even with Selvian being mostly incompetent and generally pleasant to be around, the villagers didn't like spending time near his cottage. Superstitious folks tend to exaggerate and make mountains out of molehills. They also tend to live longer than others.

  "I don't know what you're talking about?" Selvian cocked one eyebrow in a manner he had practiced many times. He thought it made him look mysterious. I think it emphasizes the gauntness of his features.

  "Last night Shila went missing, her folks don't know where she went. They just woke up and her window was open." Berris did not wring his hands as he explained. Well perhaps just a little bit.

  "Shila?"

  "The Terrand's oldest girl."

  "Are they sure she hasn't snuck out to see a young man. It seems like if we wait a few hours, she might wander home embarrassed to have caused such a scene."

  Berris cocked his head and made eye contact with Selvian for the first time since he stepped onto his porch.

  "She's only four years old, I don't think she snuck out to spend time with a boy."

  Selvian let out a long exhalation. I just love it when he puts his foot in his mouth.

  "I'll take your word for it. Let me put some things together and I'll come down and see if there is anything I can do."

  Berris nodded.

  "I'll let them know you're on your way."

  With that he turned and left the young Aetheric Sorceretic Conjourous Novice alone with his thoughts.

  Will Berris tell everyone he walked in on the wizard clothless in his cottage? Will the Terrand's be offended that I forgot the age of their daughter? Is a four-year-old gone missing in the night something I'm capable of dealing with? And where in the nine blackened blades is that worthless familiar of mine?

  Selvian stepped into his cottage and closed the door behind him. He glanced around at the various tools of his trade and took a deep breath. Time to get to work.