140 Characters: Archmage Elrik and “Dorothy”

Elrik closed the hotel room door and heard it click with a heavy latch. Satisfied, he opened his trunk. His workbench sprang to life across the small table. The falcon’s feathers ruffled at the sudden change in air pressure, but when Elrik removed his hood, the bird was calm.

He looked at the Sword. Zapasavle was the sword of the warrior of the ages. The last of the armour that he had carried with him from Bezbran. The shield and armour had already been sent out into the world – the semi-sentient objects would seek out their right and proper owners.  The other portions of the armour had been simple to transform. They were not named.  They did not bear the twelve enchantments of destiny.

Zapasavle was not going to transform with a few hand motions and a muttered word. He rested the sword, still in its scabbard, across the length of his workbench.

Elrik would doubt his ability to perform this transformation had he not uncovered his true Destiny. In his world, things that are written in the books of the gods are called Osun. When he discovered his own name written to be the Archmage who takes the armour to the mirrorworld and sets it on its quest to discover the Warrior, he trembled.  Elrik trembled, but he did not shirk.

He prepared the sword with black oil and wax. Barely lifting it from it’s scabbard, he rested the silver blue blade against his bare palm. He felt the honed edge prick at his skin, and watched blood well. He sent prayers to Bezbran’s gods, and to whatever gods ruled the Mirrorworld, and on a single breath, he spoke the words of transformation.

He almost fainted at the power of the spell. The named blade bucked and did not want to shift, but shift it did. The will of the Archmage and Bezbran’s own gods outmatching its steelwill.

In Elrik’s bloodied hand rested a simple pen. The cap slightly loosened, as the scabbard had been.

Elrik wiped his hand on his robe and nodded, capping the pen with a snap. He felt a little dizzy. But there was work to be done yet.

He uttered a few words to transform his garb into the drab clothing he’d spied on other hotel guests. He slid the pen into his shirt pocket and smoothed the lines of his trim grey suit.  Next, he cast a veil of invisibility on his falcon, Oko. With his falcon heavy on his wrist, Elrik walked out onto the small balcony.

“Oko, see what I cannot. If you cannot report to me, report to Tyllon. No one else.” And he freed the falcon from its tethers.

“It is done,” he said, patting his pockets again checking for room key and his pouch of gold, which had transformed with his clothing into a strange small leather booklet.

Elrik enjoyed the tickling sensation and the weird tightness in his ears as the elevator plummeted to the lobby. He smiled at the woman who had given him his room. She did not appear to recognize him. He smiled at the young man who had carried his trunk. The young man did not appear to recognize him, either.

“…lousy fifty cents!” the young man exclaimed to his young friend. Elrik did not understand these words.

The sounds of wind and thunder were deafening in the canyon of walls, but they did not come from clouds or sky. They came from the carriages like the yellow one that had conveyed him here.

Elrik steeled himself against the onslaught of sound and turned resolutely to his right hand. He felt the pen tugging in his pocket, and heeded its call. He was intrigued when drawn into a small coffee shop.

“What would you like?” the young woman asked. She had streaked blonde and red hair and bright red lips. The plastic tag above her breast read “Dorothy.”  Elrik watched as she pulled a pad of paper from her pocket and a white plastic pen.

“Meat and hot brown drinks,” he said, eyeing the photos in the menu that made no sense to him.

Dorothy’s eyebrows lifted. She glanced down at her tablet and scribbled small circles in the corner frowning at the small paper. Elrik watched as she patted her pockets for another pen.  He drew Zapasavle from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Here, use mine.”

“Thanks,” she said, “Be right back with your coffee,” she mumbled as she walked away, scratching black marks on the pad with the transformed sword.

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6 thoughts on “140 Characters: Archmage Elrik and “Dorothy”

    • And you found out what that word was in the first one! 🙂

      This one was supposed to sort of tie together all of the others and give you a concept of where the story’s going.

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