Whilaway Weatherworn had worked hard his entire life and it showed in his large home in Deraforda, in the elven sculptures and paintings he'd decorated his home with from the finest up and coming artists and the few servants he kept around to cater to him when his old age made things difficult.
Hard work was like breathing to an elf and Whilaway's greatest regret in life was that he had so little of it. He considered elves' short lifespan of a mere fifty years to be a personal affront, a thing he regretted and fought in his old age as best his old bones would allow. For a normal person, being angry with something as immutable as aging was childish but wizards made it their business to be ridiculous like that.
He sat in his study, papers and books all neatly organized, every edge lined up to the next and piles neatly stacked and printed on in his graceful elven handwriting. Symbols drawn over and over as he searched for just the combination of lines and curves that would bring magic to form instead of theory. Magical research was a lot like abstract art. Drawing nonsense swirls and shapes within a circle, infusing it with magic and seeing what happened. Similar shapes went into manipulating similar forces but finding the first step was the most difficult. Some wizards went so far as to hire on toddlers with paint. That was where fire magic had come from.
“Sir, you've got a visitor.”
Whilaway startled, his quill flying from his hand. His prized assistant Wormwood had the bad habit of stalking up behind him.
“My god, are you trying to hurry me along before my time? I should tie a bell around your neck.”
Wormwood was tall even for an elf, his body lithe and androgynous features simultaneously handsome and beautiful depending on who was looking. His short blonde hair stopped just around his eyes. His smile was only an upturning of his lips with no real happiness behind it.
“It wouldn't do any good. That's one of the methods I used to train myself.”
Whilaway sat back, a groan accompanying his creaking bones.
“Who is it?”
“That moron, Wade.”
Whilaway pushed himself up with some effort.
“See? Throw enough worthless human life at something and it gets done. Show him in.”
“Sir, you don't have to personally attend to business with a human-”
He waved the suggestion away.
“The lesser races lap up personal attention. Easier to control people who like you. Show him in.”
Wormwood nodded and disappeared for several minutes, leaving his boss to hope for something substantial from this outing. Something, anything about the ancient elves he'd pursued for almost his whole life. Elves whose power surpassed all others, elves whose life spans reached into the thousands of years instead of the paltry handful that put them barely above those rats outside.
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“Sir?”
He'd been close once. A tight knit group, all working together with their fingertips brushing the secret-
“Sir?”
His head snapped up to see the giant Wade before him, Wormwood gently shaking the old man's shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry, getting a bit lost in my thoughts. Mr. Bruin, I see you've returned. Did you find anything?”
Wade stood up tall, grazing his head on the ceiling in his attempt to look heroic.
“Surely, sir. You can always count on any expedition led by yours truly to come back triumphant!”
He flexed for some reason and Whilaway did his practiced nod and smile he used when he meant to roll his eyes.
“So everything went okay? You all came back?”
Wade scratched his head, making some strange stalling gurgle.
“Ahhhh...nnnnoooo. The wizard and the sister died. But thanks to my quick thinking we burned down a massive wasp fairy nest and-”
He stopped to dig into his pockets and came up with the small stones and a sheaf of rolled papers.
“The little...things you wanted.”
He paused, pondering just how good it made him look to give credit.
“I sent Clarke and Gwen to check inside a little buried hut. They found it in a safe.”
Whilaway shuffled the papers, glancing over the report of what exactly happened. Sending Clarke along had already paid off in that he could actually read this report. Many other times he'd sent groups and he'd spend days deciphering theirs,. He turned the stone over in his hand, rubbing his thumb along the side. He patted Wade on the arm, nodding with his best fake smile on.
“Very good, young man. Wormwood will pay you on the way out. Afraid I can't have any visitors today. Lots to do.”
Wade nodded, flipping a thumbs up.
“Of course, sir! And you know where to find me if you need any other items picked up, adventures ventured and monsters slain. I do it all.”
His self advertisement trailed off as he was led down the hallway and the door closed. Whilaway wiped his hands on his robe.
Idiot.
He sat back at his desk, placing the stone just so on a stack of papers, with several other similar stones. Some bigger, some smaller, some in varying colors. All little more than paper weights without just the right spell to crack them open and spill their wealth of knowledge. The report was well written, all the major information taken down and even the minor mentioned and detailed in other pages.
Would he make it in time, though? After the disaster everything they thought they knew had been lost. Even the secret of the elves, a secret he had been standing in the midst of, had been lost.
He paused.
...picked it up causing words to spring from the stone...
His breath caught in his throat and he choked trying to yell for someone, anyone, to come.
“Wormwood! Wormwood, get in here immediately!”
The door flew open and he rushed back, eyes flicking around for whatever had caused such an outburst.
“Sir?”
“That boy. That Script boy, Clarke Script. Go get him. Bring him to me.”
“Sir, Wade just told me he and Clarke were going to Koar immediately.”
“Go get him!”
Whilaway pointed to the door, racing as fast as he could to the hallway and hobbling along with Wormwood hovering beside at his elbow.
“He opened one of those stones! He could READ it! I've been working on the spell for years and haven't gotten anywhere! Go find him, bring him back no matter what!”
He waved his staff in a flash of blue and the heavy front door slammed open with a bang. He would have stepped outside as if to chase after on his own but Wormwood grabbed the old man's shoulder and squeezed. The pain of the light pressure halted Whilaway and he suddenly felt very old. He slumped, withering into himself.
“Sir, I will chase him down, don't worry.”
Whilaway looked out to his courtyard, the huge barred gate and the world teeming with people beyond. He ruled many things but the thing closest to him, his body, was not one of them.
“I'll leave it to you.”