Dran walked carefully around the desk. Nothing was fancy or extravagant about it. Everything seemed simple, practical. He edged closer, and leaned in to get a better look. He could see age in every curl and knot in the wood. The room was tidy and neat. The candle was out, but was still molten a bit. It hadn’t been that long since it had been occupied.
Books and scraps of paper littered the desk. In the center was a large ceramic bowl filled with a mossy, pungent smelling liquid. Dran had used enough magic to know that this was a spell makers desk. Not only could he see it, he could feel it. The hair on his arms stood on end. The room was charged.
Lots of people use spells, but only a rare few actually make them. You would think the makers would be powerful and famous, but they weren’t. Most toiled away in obscurity, in rooms much like this, perfecting their craft.
It’s a dangerous line of work to be in. Makers would routinely be killed by their own creations. An errant word here, a missed letter there, could mean an unexpected end to even the most careful of spell makers. If you found a battle spell maker past the age of 20, keep them.
Dran wondered about this maker. Where were they? It didn’t look like any explosions took place lately.
He rifled through the room looking for clues. Most spell maker are driven by the will to create. It is an imbalance in the world that they are compelled correct. Some are directed by their interests and skills.
“A Guide to Common Town Folk” sat on the edge of the desk. Darn rifled though the pages. Each one was a short description of common people and what they do. Fishmonger, barkeep, adventurer. Each page contained the spell part that would help the maker transform something or someone into something else.
This maker seemed to have lot of other books on transmogrification. It’s a weird, but wonderful line of work to be sure. The transformers are the most imaginative of the makers.
Was this maker transforming someone and something went wrong? This would be a sad way to go, Dran thought. He gathered more and more. A book on memory creation. A passage used for skill building, clothing. It was becoming clear that the maker was remaking someone.
He didn’t dare read any of the written spells on the desk. This was harder than you would imagine. The mind wants to read and comprehend, but he didn’t want to end up as a fishmonger today.
He couldn’t stay much longer. As fascinating as this is, he was an adventurer and he must be moving on. There was really nothing of value that he could find. No great book of unknown spells. No magic charms. Nothing.
He sank to the floor to rest for a bit. He drank some wine and nibbled on some cheese he had in his pouch. On the floor next to him was a small slip of paper with a small bit of script. It appeared to be a harmless part of a spell, so he read it.
And now Darn, adventurer, of father Belock, of town Stella, become.
The slip of paper dropped from Darn hand, he sat for a minute and tried to connect with his past, but it was gone. He grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. He never looked back.