Selvian stepped from his cottage holding a hickory staff tightly in his right hand. He wore a traveling cloak that billowed out behind him with the movement of his quick steps. Slung over his shoulder and resting at his side was a leather satchel containing various items of Aetheric significance.

  There was a small vial of clear alcohol that had been mixed with water freshly fallen from a waterfall. A skystone that had been taken from a crater on a far away mountain. There was a satchel of spices ground into a fine powder and laced with the barest amount of dried breadcrumbs. A knife that had been left out during a full moon. A token of favor once given to him by a fairy. Of course he had salt and iron. And wrapped carefully in a fine binding of leather cord were the twelve copper sheets he had so painstakingly engraved.

  On his porch, Selvian focused his mind on being unfocused. He slid his knife lightly across his left palm and called out to his familiar.

  "Gresselvig I beckon thee. Gresselvig I speak your name. Gresselvig MANIFEST!"

  Of course you must be inside of a circle to summon a creature by its name, but Selvian was cleverer than I often give him credit for. In and around his cottage there lay thirteen circles of various shapes and sizes. The largest stretching over half a square mile and comprised of thirteen stones the size of small horses. It took him half a month to maneuver those stones into place at various points around his cottage. And he walked the perimeter of the circle thirteen times during its construction. He used that circle now to call Gresselvig.

  There was a thud as something dark fell from the roof. The wood of Selvian's porch gave way beneath claws no thicker than the blade of a knife. A demon charged forward and flung itself at its master's feet.

  Gresselvig was not truly a demon. For a thing can be called a thing and remain not the thing that it was called. Most uneducated simpletons called any creature they could not easily classify a demon. And Gresselvig was far from classifiable.

  He was the size of a large house cat, with a tail that stretched twice the length of his body. Gresselvig had five limbs, six if you counted his tail. Two hind legs clustered on his right side. While the other three were where you'd generally expect legs to be. A mix of dark mucus colored scales and dark gray feathers wound their way between patchy splotches of brown fur. He had the face of a bat. His nose scrunched up tightly against his face, leaving not enough room for his tongue to be fully contained by it. Two pointed ears stuck up above his head, though his left had the tendency to fold forward and flop about. He was ugly. And he was adorable.

  "You have disappointed me, Gresselvig. An intruder stood on my doorstep without my knowledge."

  Gresselvig snorted and drooled, his eyes squinted against the blinding light of the early morning.

  "You are hungover again aren't you?"

  Gresselvig laid on the ground and covered his pitch black eyes with the forepaws. Sharp claws nearly permanently blinding himself.

  "You've been a bad boy."

  Gresselvig moaned piteously.

  "Do not let it happen again."

  Gresselvig's tail snaked around his body. He bit down on the end of it. Taking comfort in the pain and taste of his own blood.

  Selvian knelt and stroked his familiar lightly behind his pointed ears. He offered his left hand, blood pooling on his palm. Gresselvig lunged forward and began to lap up the freshly spilled blood, his tail flicking back and forth contentedly.

  After a moment had passed Selvian stood and pulled a roll of bandages from his satchel and bound his hand tightly. He flexed the small wound, familiar with the stinging pain.

  "Get some rest Gresselvig, I may have need of you soon."

  Selvian set off down the mountain. He did not whistle, which I appreciated. Selvian was a terrible whistler. Instead he did his best to enjoy the walk down the mountain. He tried to keep his trips down infrequent. Any more than once a week left his legs aching.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Casabe consisted of something like three dozen buildings. It had an inn that employed Berris the baker as well as a general store that was kept supplied most months out of the year. The mayor lived in a small stone cottage not far from the village green, and three wells had been dug throughout the village to take advantage of an underground river that passed through the valley.

  Selvian stopped to take in the view as Casabe came into sight. Smoke poured up from several chimney's. A few families walked through the winding village streets. From a distance it didn't appear that anything was wrong, but Selvian paused and did his best to observe.

  Observation is one of the most important skills any mage can build. Speaking the language of magic and calling elemental forces is all about observation, but even once you're wielding the power of creation you have to be observant. A strong man with a hammer can drive nails into a board with ease, but only if he keeps his eyes open. An Evacater can vomit flames across the battlefield, but if they can't pick out friendly soldiers from the enemy... well, court marshals exist for a reason.

  People moved throughout Casabe, and if you didn't pay attention it would appear they moved all throughout the town. Selvian watched and saw several groups travel well out of their way to avoid a single house built near the middle of the village. Children ran and played, but only on the fringes of Casabe, not a one rushed through the village green. In fact only a single figure moved toward the Terrand's house. A figure wearing a deep velvet green cloak pulled up over their head.

  "Nine blackened blades," Selvian cursed under his breath.

  It was a good thing that his mother was dead. She would have disapproved of such foul language, but I suppose it was warranted. The green cloaked figure must have been Irene. The oldest woman in the village was a terrible gossip. And once she showed up to comfort the Terrand's it wasn't likely that she'd leave. That meant Selvian was going to have to interact with her. After the last time, he wasn't so sure that was a good idea.

  Selvian stood for a long moment, considering fleeing back up the mountain to the safety of his own cottage. It was warm and there was studying that they could be doing. Surely the Terrand girl couldn't have wandered off too far. She's probably already back in her home, locked in her room after a good lashing. Selvian thought to himself. He was good at convincing himself that work didn't actually need to get done.

  Something strange clung to the inside of Selvian's chest. It hung there like blackened mold on the interior of a damp closet. It reeked of sulfur and toxic fumes. It radiated a sickening warmth that soured his stomach. Selvian had no idea what that feeling was. He thought it might be shame or guilt. Selvian was ignorant, but I'm not. I know that it was the feeling of a beginning.

  Selvian, steeping lightly down the path, entered Casabe. Or perhaps entered isn't the right word. Selvian skirted the barest edge of Casabe. He flirted lightly with the idea of entering Casabe. He stuck one toe over the border of wilderness and civilization, before holding his breath and charging in a straight line until he was standing at the door Terrand's house.

  Selvian must have angered some small luck spirit, because it was mere moments before he knocked lightly at the door that it opened, squeaking loudly on old hinges. Irene stood there, one foot firmly planted in the foundation, the other questing forward, ready to step out and take control of her village. OR at the very least nudge it's inner workings this way and that using the power of rumor and manipulation

  She stopped though, when she saw Selvian sitting there with his hand raised. They made an odd couple standing there. Like two deer crossing a clearing and making eye contact with each other. Each posed ever so uncomfortably in mid action. Selvian with his lean frame and darkened traveling cloak draped over his shoulders. Hand clasping what was very evidently not a wizarding staff. And Irene. Her back hunched with many years, and eyes that pulled back into a near perpetual sneer.

  "Now what do you think you're doing, coming round at an hour of distress. You think you're going to stride up here and prey on this poor family in their desperate times. You think any of us appreciate you stopping by to sell potions and charms to a family in need?"

  Irene broke the silence with a torrent of words that buffeted Selvian back a full step. Not one to carry on the strongest conversations, Selvain's mouth hung open with a stammering reply caught soundlessly in the back of his throat.

  "Irene, we asked him to come by."

  It was Thack Terrand who put an end to Irene's onslaught. Selvian could have kissed him. If he was one to kiss bearded men. And if Thack's wife wasn't in the room crying over her daughter's disappearance.

  "You did what?" Irene's voice was all ice and disdain.

  "We asked him to come by." Thack responded in the tone of a father who's little girl was missing. And who would do whatever it took to get her back.

  Irene nearly missed the tone of his voice, caught up in her own righteous condemnation of Selvian she nearly plowed on and scolded the Terrand family for inviting sorcerous intervention into what was clearly a village problem.

  "My daughter is missing."

  That was enough. Irene sealed her lips, nodded once. More in acknowledgement of fact than tacit approval of the methods the Terrand's were using. She strode out the door and into the village, bowling over Selvian before he had the opportunity to scurry aside.

  "Nine angels." Thack cursed from the doorway. "The woman means well but I was a few minutes away from throwing her out the door myself. Selvian, please come in."