Eugene couldn’t help himself. They were sitting in a dimly lit inn, nursing weak drinks after the day’s chaos at the Velvet Veil, now made into some kind of paladin-fungus-bar. Krungus looked like he was pondering something profound—or maybe just sulking—but Eugene had been holding back a question all day, and he couldn’t keep it in any longer.
“So,” Eugene began hesitantly, “if you’re, like, this super-powerful wizard who built an entire city and brought magic back into the world...why do you look like you lost a fight with a raccoon?”
Krungus froze mid-thought, then turned to Eugene with a slow, deliberate glare. “Do you always start conversations by insulting people, or am I just special?”
“I mean—look, it’s a fair question!” Eugene said, ignoring Krungus' ironic comment. “Your clothes look like they’re older than most civilizations, your staff is...well, a stick, and you’ve got this whole ‘grumpy swamp hermit’ vibe going on. Shouldn’t you have, like, wizard bling or something?”
Krungus let out a long, theatrical sigh and leaned back in his chair, staring at the cracked ceiling beams. “Fine. Since your tiny mortal brain clearly can’t cope with a mystery, I’ll explain. For the first eight thousand years of my imprisonment, I clung to hope. I thought, ‘Surely, someone will find me. Surely, I will be freed.’ But as the centuries crawled by, I began to realize something.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nobody was coming.”
Eugene frowned. “That’s...depressing.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” Krungus said cheerfully. “By the ninth millennium, I had officially given up. No magic could breach my prison. No plea could reach the outside world. So I stopped trying. For the last thousand years, I lay in what was known as Neverender, on The Seventh Floor of Syzzyzzy—a dreary, endless void of shifting shadows and howling winds. I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t even move. I simply...existed.”
Eugene blinked. “And you couldn’t, you know, end it all?”
Krungus snorted. “You think I didn’t try? The problem with being a nigh-immortal wizard is that death doesn’t come easily. I considered every method imaginable, and do you know what I learned?”
“What?”
“Being nigh-immortal is very inconvenient.”
Eugene stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or cringe. “So...what happened? How’d you get out?”
Krungus’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “A group of adventurers stumbled upon my prison. Nice people, though a bit peculiar. The leader was a gnome with some sort of twitching problem—her eye kept doing this strange little jig. Made me uncomfortable just looking at her. But they freed me.”
“And the clothes?” Eugene asked, eyeing the ragged, foul-smelling fabric draped over Krungus.
“This,” Krungus said, gesturing at himself with a flourish, “is what nine thousand years of rotting in a magical prison does to even the finest robes. The stick?” He lifted his so-called staff. “Not a staff. Just something I found on the ground. Haven’t had time to replace it yet.”
Eugene leaned back, trying to process it all. “So you’re basically starting from scratch.”
“Precisely,” Krungus said, taking a smug sip of his drink. “And yet, even in this sorry state, I remain infinitely more competent than the fools running this city.”
Eugene leaned back, gesturing vaguely at Krungus’s robes. “Sure, but if you’re so competent, why are you walking around looking like a charity case? No offense, but you’ve got the whole ‘mad hermit’ thing going on.”
Krungus set his drink down with deliberate precision and gave Eugene a withering look. “You know, for someone whose greatest accomplishment was finding the popcorn aisle at Blockbuster, you’ve developed a remarkable talent for critique.”
Eugene shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”
“Very well,” Krungus said, rising to his feet with a dramatic sigh. “If my appearance is distracting you from my obvious brilliance, I suppose I’ll have to address it.”
He raised his so-called staff—a gnarled stick that looked like it had been borrowed from a particularly unimpressive shrub—and muttered a soft incantation. Then, in a louder, rhythmic tone, he chanted:
“Grime and rot, be gone from sight,
Restore my garb to gleaming white!
From tattered cloth to shining gold,
Make me as I was of old!”
A soft, golden light enveloped him, and the faint, warm scent of rootbeer wafted through the room. Eugene straightened in his seat, curiosity piqued, as the light faded to reveal a transformed Krungus.
His robes were now pristine and majestic, a flowing white ensemble made of fine, supple material that resembled soft leather. Gold embroidery traced intricate, swirling patterns across every layer, the designs shifting subtly as if alive. His hat, towering and pointed with a very wide brim, added an extra layer of authority to his already imposing figure.
His beard, still long and full, was now neatly groomed, no longer the moldy tangle it had been before. His skin, which had once looked pallid and ancient, now seemed healthier, its deep lines still present but less severe, lending him the air of a man who had lived long and well. And though his voice retained that unmistakable “I’m older than 9000” resonance, there was now a commanding clarity to it, like distant thunder given form.
Krungus’s staff had undergone a striking transformation. No longer a mere stick, it was now a smooth metal rod, etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly. At its top sat a brilliant blue crystal, perfectly cut and radiating an inner light that made the air around it shimmer faintly.
On his hands, rings of various shapes and colors adorned his fingers. Some glowed softly, others seemed to ripple with barely contained power, and a few defied explanation entirely. His glasses—a pair of perfectly round, red-lensed spectacles—perched on his nose with gold frames that gleamed faintly in the dim light of the inn.
Eugene blinked, processing the transformation. “Wow,” he said finally. “That’s...a serious upgrade.”
Krungus adjusted the glasses with an air of practiced dignity. “This, Eugene, is what a proper wizard looks like. Refined. Commanding. Intimidating.”
Eugene tilted his head slightly, catching the faint scent of rootbeer. “Is that...?”
“Rootbeer barrels,” Krungus said, his voice tinged with pride. “A cologne that, in my time, was considered the epitome of sophistication. It is subtle, refined, and utterly wasted on the likes of you.”
“I’m confused how you even know what those are. It’s, uh...nice,” Eugene said diplomatically.
Krungus gave a small, satisfied nod. “As it should be.”
Eugene gestured at the staff. “And that? Looks a lot better than your old stick.”
“This is no mere staff,” Krungus said, twirling it with a flourish. “It is the Rod of Dreamspire. A tool of unparalleled craftsmanship and power. Unlike my previous...temporary implement, this is worthy of my station.”
Eugene nodded, genuinely impressed. “Well, I gotta admit, you’ve really turned it around. You look like an actual wizard now.”
“As I always should,” Krungus said, turning toward the door with a dramatic swish of his robes. “Now, shall we? This city’s many fools will not insult themselves.”
Eugene rose, trailing behind him. “Right behind you, Elminster.”
Krungus paused and glared over his shoulder. “I have no idea who that is, and I still hate them.”
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Krungus’s new appearance was undeniably striking. His white robes, layered and flowing, shimmered faintly in the sunlight, embroidered with intricate golden patterns that seemed to shift subtly with his movements. His beard, still as long as ever, had been groomed to a gleaming luster, and his glasses—with their perfectly round red lenses—perched on his nose, lending him an air of eccentric dignity.
It was the kind of look that made heads turn. Which is exactly what Eugene found increasingly awkward as they walked through the bustling streets of Aelintheldaar.
“What?” Eugene finally asked, noticing Krungus glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
Krungus sniffed. “Nothing. It’s just...you.”
“Me what?” Eugene said, his arms spreading wide as he looked down at his clothes. “I look fine.”
“You look like you crawled out of a midden heap,” Krungus said flatly. “Which, considering how little you’ve done to adapt, isn’t far from the truth.”
Eugene blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You didn’t seem to care before.”
“Before,” Krungus said, gesturing to himself, “I was equally shabby. Now, however, I am restored. And you, dear Eugene, are an embarrassment to my presence.”
Eugene rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, I’m so sorry I don’t have a magic wardrobe to make me look like Gandalf’s rich cousin.”
Krungus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If we’re going to walk among the populace, you should at least try to look like you belong here. Come.” He spun on his heel, his robes swirling dramatically, and began striding purposefully toward an open-air market.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
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The market was a kaleidoscope of color and activity, with stalls lining the streets, each one bursting with wares: bolts of vibrant fabric, racks of shimmering jewelry, and rows of exquisitely tailored garments. Krungus didn’t hesitate, zeroing in on a stall displaying men’s suits that were clearly designed with a flair for elegance.
“Here,” Krungus said, gesturing at the suits with a flourish. “Choose something that doesn’t offend the eyes.”
Eugene hesitated, glancing at the offerings. The styles were far from what he was used to—high-collared coats, layered waistcoats, and pants with intricate embroidery. “This is...a bit much,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
Krungus sighed dramatically. “If you’re going to insist on looking like a vagrant, I’ll choose for you.”
“No, no,” Eugene said quickly, raising his hands. “I’ll pick.”
His eyes scanned the racks until they landed on a suit that looked strikingly familiar. “This one,” he said, pointing to a dark charcoal ensemble with subtle pinstripes, a high collar, and a waistcoat trimmed with silver. “It’s...kind of Victorian, I guess.”
“Good enough,” Krungus said, motioning to the merchant. “Try it on.”
The merchant, a wiry man with a mustache that curled like an extravagant flourish of ink, pulled the suit down and handed it to Eugene. “Fitting room’s over there,” he said, nodding to a curtained-off corner of the stall.
Eugene stepped behind the curtain and changed, feeling slightly ridiculous as he adjusted the layers of fabric. When he stepped out, the merchant clapped his hands and raised a pair of scissors that glowed faintly with enchantment.
“Hold still,” the merchant said, snipping the air in Eugene’s direction. At once, the suit adjusted itself, the fabric tightening and shifting until it fit perfectly. Eugene stared down at himself in awe, turning to catch his reflection in a polished bronze mirror.
“Well?” Eugene asked, gesturing at his reflection. “How do I look?”
“Marginally less offensive,” Krungus said with a smirk. He pulled something from within his robes—a piece of lavender-colored fabric that shimmered like silk spun from starlight—and handed it to the merchant.
The merchant’s eyes widened, and he quickly bowed. “More than enough, sir. Much appreciated.”
Eugene frowned as they left the stall. “You just...gave him a piece of fabric? That’s how you pay for things?”
“That was no ordinary fabric,” Krungus said. “A single thread from it could buy the man’s stall ten times over.”
Eugene’s curiosity got the better of him. “Where do you keep stuff like that? You’re always pulling random things out of your pockets like some kind of magical Mary Poppins.”
Krungus smirked. “It’s called a bag of holding.”
Eugene’s eyes lit up. “Like in D&D? No way. Let me see.”
Krungus raised an eyebrow but indulged him, reaching into the folds of his robe and pulling out what appeared to be a simple leather pouch. “Here it is,” he said, holding it out. “And yes, it is better than any bag of holding you’ve ever encountered.”
Eugene peered inside, his jaw dropping. The interior wasn’t just spacious—it was massive. It seemed to stretch endlessly, the walls of the space shimmering like liquid light. He could make out shelves upon shelves of items: books, scrolls, glowing artifacts, and even what looked like a tea set.
“This is insane,” Eugene said, shaking his head. “It’s real. All those times I used a bag of holding in games, I never thought...”
“You’re easily impressed,” Krungus said, slipping the bag back into his robes.
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As they left the market, Krungus suddenly paused, his gaze locking onto a figure ahead. She was blonde, her hair falling in waves down her back, her stride elegant and purposeful. For a moment, Krungus’s breath caught, his usually sharp demeanor softening into something vulnerable.
“Krungus?” Eugene asked, frowning. “You okay?”
Krungus didn’t answer. He followed the woman, his steps slow but deliberate, his eyes never leaving her.
Eugene hesitated, then sighed and trailed after him. “This better not be some kind of creepy wizard thing,” he muttered.
The woman turned into an alleyway, and Krungus quickened his pace. As they rounded the corner, she turned to face him, her features coming into view. She was striking, with piercing blue eyes and a faint smile, but she wasn’t who Krungus had hoped to see.
The shift in Krungus’s demeanor was immediate. His shoulders slumped, and the light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a sadness that seemed to weigh down his entire frame. The woman, sensing his disappointment, gave him a puzzled look before walking away.
Eugene stepped up beside him, watching the woman leave. “You want to tell me what that was about?”
Krungus adjusted his glasses, his voice quieter than usual. “For a moment, I thought she was someone I once knew.”
Eugene raised an eyebrow. “An ex?”
Krungus huffed softly. “Hardly. She was...complicated. Utopianna.”
“And what’s the story there?” Eugene asked, leaning casually against the alley wall.
Krungus hesitated, then sighed. “She was the third founder of The Number, alongside myself and Sharrzaman. Brilliant, unattainable, and...incalculably important. Both Sharrzaman and I...cared for her. Deeply.”
Eugene tilted his head. “And?”
“And she cared for neither of us,” Krungus said simply. “Not in the way we wanted. Sharrzaman could not accept it, and his obsession grew...unhealthy. As for me...well, let’s just say her absence has never gone unnoticed.”
Eugene frowned. “So, this is like a love triangle gone wrong?”
“Very wrong,” Krungus said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Sharrzaman’s jealousy drove him to betray me. He sealed me away, tore apart what we had built, and disappeared. And Utopianna...vanished. Where she went, I do not know.”
Eugene was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of unfinished business.”
Krungus nodded, his expression unreadable as he stared off at something only he could see. “Indeed.”
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Far from the City of Cities, deep in a wilderness where even the bravest souls dared not tread, rose a blackened spire of impossible geometry. The tower seemed to bend reality around it, twisting the light of the sun into jagged shadows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, strange herbs, and a faint metallic tang of something alchemical left too long on the flame.
Sharrzaman stood in the heart of his sanctum, surrounded by miserable looking pixies that cast their pale glow across walls lined with bookshelves, each crammed with tomes so ancient they seemed to breathe dust. He stared into the shimmering surface of a scrying mirror, his reflection distorted by ripples of arcane energy.
His lips curled into a smug grin, though there was no one to witness it. “Well, well,” he murmured, his voice low and melodious, dripping with venomous delight. “The old fool lives. Nine thousand years, and somehow that insufferable rat has crawled his way back into the world.”
He stepped away from the mirror, the long hem of his dark robe sweeping across the stone floor. His tower felt colder now, as though the very knowledge of Krungus’s return had summoned a bitter wind that snaked through the cracks in the ancient walls. He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly in a manner he imagined looked regal.
“So,” he said aloud, his voice echoing faintly. “What shall I do with this...unexpected development? Ah, Krungus, my dear rival. It seems even time itself couldn’t erase you.” He paused, tilting his head. “Pity.”
Sharrzaman’s grin faltered, and his expression darkened. He strode to a nearby table, cluttered with magical instruments—beakers of glowing liquid, shards of cracked crystal, and an intricate map of The City of Cities etched onto a slab of black obsidian. He trailed a finger over the map absently as his thoughts turned inward.
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“The Number,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but the bitterness wasn’t real. Not entirely. He sneered, as if forcing himself to hate the thought, but the sneer didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What a foolish endeavor it was,” he said, louder now, as though convincing himself. “A gathering of so-called minds, all of them desperate for validation. Clinging to their petty discoveries like starving dogs. A joke. A waste of time.” He smirked, a shadow of his younger self. “My time.”
But the smirk faded quickly, the pixies were giggling at him again because he was talking to himself. He was patient with them, given all that they had given him over the years. But sometimes he just wanted to reach out there and pluck those stupid little wings off. It was so hard to take yourself seriously when a little fairy girl started giggling every time you started monologuing.
The halls of The Number’s headquarters had been grand once, echoing with debates that could reshape the world. Sharrzaman could still hear the voices of the other mages, sharp and passionate, driven by purpose. He could still see Krungus, always so sure of himself, gesturing wildly as he defended some harebrained theory. He could still feel the warmth of the fire in their central chamber, the way it crackled with magic that they had pulled from the very fabric of existence.
For a fleeting moment, his chest tightened with something that felt uncomfortably like nostalgia. But Sharrzaman was a genius, and geniuses did not indulge in sentimentality. He shook his head violently, his long black hair falling in front of his face. “Idiots,” he hissed. “All of them. They needed me more than I ever needed them.”
And yet...he knew that wasn’t entirely true.
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Sharrzaman’s pacing slowed as his thoughts turned to her. Utopianna. Even her name felt like a spell, soft and shimmering, full of untouchable power. He reached for a bottle of wine sitting on a nearby shelf and poured himself a glass, the liquid swirling like molten ruby. He sipped it absentmindedly, staring into the middle distance. The pixies could piss off.
“Ah, Utopianna,” he said softly, the bitterness in his tone giving way to something far more raw. “The perfect one. The one who was beyond us all.”
He laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. “You knew, didn’t you? Knew that neither of us could ever hold you, even if we could move mountains. You were so...unreachable. And yet, we were fools, Krungus and I. Both of us thought we could somehow...matter to you.”
Sharrzaman clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the wineglass. “You didn’t even care about love, did you? No. You cared about the work. About magic. About the world. Not about us.” His voice cracked slightly, and he downed the rest of the wine in a single gulp. “And now? Now, you’re gone. Like the rest of them. Like The Number itself.”
He slammed the glass down on the table, cracking its base. For a moment, the tower was silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing.
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Sharrzaman turned back to the scrying mirror, the swirling surface now showing faint glimpses of Aelintheldaar. He could see the city’s sprawl, its filthy streets teeming with life, its chaos a far cry from the orderly masterpiece it had been under The Number’s influence. And there, amidst the chaos, he watched a familiar figure.
Krungus. No longer trapped, no longer rotting in the pocket dimension where Sharrzaman had left him.
Sharrzaman’s lips curled into a sneer, though it wavered at the edges. “You should have stayed in your prison, old friend,” he said quietly. “You don’t belong in this world anymore.”
But even as he said the words, he knew they were a lie. The world needed Krungus as much as it needed him. They were two halves of the same coin, eternally bound by rivalry and brilliance. And now that Krungus had returned, Sharrzaman could feel the fire within him stirring once more. He had been idle for too long, his genius dulled by solitude.
“What to do, what to do,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table. “Should I confront you? Destroy you? No, that’s too...crude. Too final. A mind like yours deserves to be toyed with.”
A slow, malevolent grin spread across his face as an idea began to take shape. “Yes,” he murmured. “Let the game begin again. Let us see who is truly the master of this world.”
Sharrzaman raised his hand, and the scrying mirror’s image faded, leaving only his reflection staring back at him. For a moment, he allowed himself a glimmer of vulnerability, a shadow of regret for what had been lost.
Then he straightened his shoulders, his expression hardening. “Let’s see if you’re still the man you once were, Krungus,” he said. “Or if these nine thousand years have turned you into something...forgettable.” A wicked little giggle, a titter if you will, cut through the air.
He turned away from the mirror, his robes billowing as he quickly grabbed the two pixies, their entire fey bodies fitting into the palm of his hand. Their wings flapped pointlessly, Sharrzaman was reminded just how weak these things were. That was until one of them bit down on his hand. He threw them both across the nearest wall, they knocked a dirty old alchemy shelf loose when they hit. They flew off back in the direction of their cages, laughing as they went.