The Last Magician

GIlly and Roderick found a corner in the dank bar and bought themselves whatever passed for ale. Barbarian warriors, theives and rogues went about their business around them.

“So you’re a wizard?” Asked Gilly, “Why don’t we just use magic?”

“No, I’m a magician.”  Replied Roderick, “Roderick the Magnificent.  I’m not a Wizard”

Gilly looked perplexed, “What’s the difference?  You do spells, don’t you?  You made that bird appear out of nowhere.”

“I don’t do spells, I do tricks.  You know, prestidigitation, legerdemain, sleight’o’hand,” he waved his hand  wearily, and pulled a flower out of thin air.  A few heads turned in the direction of the small show, then shuffled further away.  A wizard in this kind of drinking hole was the kind of wizard that was dangerous to know.

“Looks like magic to me,” said Gilly as Roderick made the flower disappear in a small puff of smoke, “And what were those words?  Is that some kind of flower magic? The true names of roses? Some kind of ward of summoning? Can you speak to trees?”

Roderick gave up and just sighed into his drink. “I guess it’s a kind of magic, but it isnt the kind of magic that can help us get the armour.”

The small glimmer of hope left Gilly’s face.  Now they mirrored each other, looking despondently over their ales, “Yeah.  I guess.  You can’t magic iron.”

And then it hit him, that small glimmer of hope that had fleetingly entered Gilly’s mind found its way into Roderick’s.  He picked up a rusty nail that sat on the table in front of them.  Gilly watched as Roderick passed the nail from one hand to the other, and with a slight click of his fingers, the nail was gone.

“Actually,” Said Roderick, pulling the nail out of Gilly’s ear, “I think I can.”


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