(Page 1 of 2) A Mage's farewell by Chris MazzoliSUMMARY: the final page of a mage's last day on earth.The tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock filled the cavernous study. The refined middle aged man leaned back in his plush leather chair and listed to the sound of the metronome that measured out the beats of his life as they passed. Sighing, he gazed down onto the faded green blotter and the book that lay on it. He grabbed a quill from its stand and tested its point. Finding it weak, he took a little knife out of the desk and whittled away enough to sharpen its point. Satisfied, he dipped it in ink and held it over the page.
"Live in magic, so say I, Julius Irving Friar," He muttered as his quill scratched the words onto the page. He waited a moment, then pulled out a damper and wicked away the extra ink before closing the cover of the leather bound tome.
"A life's work in a single volume, can a man's life be measured thus?" His fingers drummed with the beat of the clock on the book as he cast his gaze about the room. Books took up every available space. They stood in stacks on the floor like little leaning towers of Pisa. They rested on chairs, acted as door stops, and in some cases, stepping stools when he needed the volumes on the upper levels.
He flicked his eyes towards the clock face and grimaced, the time drew near. With a rustle of paper, he withdrew a sheet of aged parchment from the desk and placed it beside his finished tome. "And now the invitation, or warning, depending on how one reads it." Julius Irving Friar picked up his quill and dipped it in ink.
12/15/2017
An Invitation
I am pleased that you have been intelligent enough to read this missive before diving into my Journal. After all, fools rush in where even angels fear to tread, and by reading this you have proven that you are no fool. The book which you hold in your hand is a tome of magic. Not the kind of magic that one finds on a stage in a casino with buffet bloated patrons watching on, no not that kind. Not the kind of magic one finds at a child's birthday party where everyone is eager to be deceived, no not that kind either. This is a tome of a different sort of magic, a magic of legend and myth. This is a tome of magic, it is powerful, and it is dangerous.
Julius Irving Friar, having run out of ink, dipped his quill in ink and held it over the paper. "What to write? Will they believe? Probably not, I should just-" shadows flickered past the lamps, dimming the light for a moment before settling in the dark recesses of the room. Julius Irving Friar gulped. "Time is short. I must finish."
Soon I shall be gone. Even now the shadows flitter around the lamps that light this room. Shadows. We live so much of our existence in them. Plato had it right, this world is a dank cave, and each of us must strive towards the light. This tome is just that. A way, if you dare it, to the light. A light of truth, of sacredness, of knowledge.
But be warned! The path to the light is full of pain, darkness and remorse. Some say that it is always darkest before the dawn; nothing could be more the truth in this case. Magic is a harsh mistress, she demands total obedience.
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