Spawn of Osk

Osk did not compare himself to other mages, with their pretentious intonations and melodramatic finger twitches.

No, he did not compare. And could not, in reality. He had found it difficult to excel when there existed a hundred other aspiring wannabes, each with the vague hope that one day they too would be archmages, sporting their own white beards and pointy hats as they discussed inane theories in hazy dens and musty libraries.

Instead, Osk found it worthwhile to evaluate himself against the common peasant, for which the comparison favored him for once, albeit only slightly.

To them, his smattering of arcane learning made him seem like fucking Merlin. Let the other aspirants struggle in the cities and courts. Let them stab each other in the back and throw former allies under the proverbial cart. He found his niche as a simple hedge wizard, where he flowered as Someone Important.

Life was good. What he lacked in money he made up for in potatoes and other root vegetables.

Osk sat before his new table, his hand gliding over the smooth, warm wood. Sometimes he accepted payment other than coin for his services, and this particular item he considered his grand prize. He had a particular dislike of the cold stone benches the students were forced to use. They seem to suck the warmth, like some insatiable succubus. He almost cried in happiness at his upgrade in furniture.

He sighed. He did have to work, from time to time. He cracked his knuckles. Pulling a clean sheet of cheap parchment from a stack, he focused on the spell he reasoned would drive out vermin from someone's abode.

Well, it worked on the cat.

The trick to writing spells lies not with the ink, but with the etching, pressing down hard enough to imprint. The ink only guided, making the indentations easier to see. In nature, arcane symbols abounded by accident, found with the chaos of tree bark or the weathered fissures on rocks. It made the world a magical place. Osk, though, preferred to create his own magic in his majestic hut. Silly, chaotic nature.

His writing covered a quarter of the page when a blast of late autumn wind came in through the window, causing the papers to swirl around the room. He shivered and cursed. He hated wearing robes yet everyone expected it, even the peasants. One could, if defending his masculinity, argue a robe quite different from a dress. That brought little comfort to Osk who felt the breeze in certain places he would rather not.

He marched over and shuttered the window. Still grumbling, he began gathering the sheets of paper littering the floor.

Something behind him squeaked.

Spinning around, he saw only the table, chair, cot, and fireplace in the small room. Shaking his head, he returned to his task.

Another squeak, this time louder.

Osk turned again, his eyes narrowing on the table. He grabbed the broom and crept over. He squatted down to peer underneath.

The table rattled, startling him. He fell on his ass and gaped at his beloved furniture.

The table shuddered again, twisting, its legs spastic and alive. Then, to his amazement, it began to walk. It took a couple tentative steps toward Osk and, with the grace of a dancer, delivered a nasty kick to his forehead.

The mage tumbled backward, head over heels. He found himself with his feet high against the wall, the weight of his body resting on his neck and shoulder. As blood poured out of his wound into his right eye, he pondered his situation for a moment before gravity toppled his body over in an unceremonious thump onto the dirt floor.

He staggered to his feet just as the table charged again. He ducked sideways and received a glancing blow to his ribs. He sucked his breath from the sharp pain. He backed away until he found himself in the corner. Between him and any egress stood the table, bucking and quaking, shattering what few possessions he had.

Osk did not understand. Had some rival mage bewitched his table? Had some jealous other discovered his formula for happiness?

Then he saw something glowing on top of the table: arcane glyphs. Right where the page had rested.

Oh. So that is why they used expensive, heavy vellum on hard, stone tables. It all made sense now.

His short-lived enlightenment evaporated, replaced by terror. The table lurched forward. It reared on two back legs like a horse, its front legs pawing at the air. He saw its back legs tense, readying for a final leap.

Osk grasped a wooden spoon lying nearby. With trembling hands, he brandished it like a katana and waited for table's charge.

The door crashed open. In a blur, thunderous blows from axes rained down upon the table. In the mayhem, Osk dimly recognized a couple of the local woodcutters, their faces grimy and determined.

In the shower of splinters and woodchips, a sadness filled Osk. His table, his creation, shuddered one last time.

He dropped the spoon.

September 20th, 1999

Image of a drawing from another page.
Imprint of a drawing from a previous page.
Imprint of a drawing from an early page.
~earlier
Footsteps of a drawing from an earlier page.
Whispers of sketch from a previous page.
Whispers of sketch from an ancestor page.
Legacy of sketch from an ancestor page.

September 21st, 1999

There are whispers of sketch from an ancestor page -
Hard to imagine such thin-crafted paper.
One wonders the pencil and applied pressure
Upon that margined legacy page,
The indentations of artistic intentions
Still evident on descendant leaves.
The hand, so solitary its endeavor,
Behave in a manner so typical in
Touching more than its allotted universe.

This failed as a poem, but it may make a good story.

December 29th, 1999

Idea for a story. Based upon that failed poem I wrote. Wizard is writing a spell and uses cheap paper. Leaves indentation on paper underneath. Gives the spell a soul.

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