in which Lezard Valeth awakens, and regrets doing so
Where? Who? What?
With awareness came disorientation. Where am I? Awareness was pain first, not even an understanding what hurt or why, only pain. It hurt, something hurt, that was all he knew. It -- he -- hurt like someone had tied him to a carriage hitch and dragged him down a cobbled road.
He knew who he was, of course. That wasn't a pressing concern. Only thing was, he ought not to hurt this badly. Groaning, he flung a hand reflexively over his face to dim the brightness that beat crimson through eyelids shut tight. The scuffed leather of his glove was excruciatingly rough against a bruised cheekbone; wincing, he dropped his hand, resigning himself to the sun. This would not do --
ugh. With his other hand, he fumbled in his cloak for the magic wand he knew was there. He didn't need the wand to cast spells, but it amplified and channeled sorcerous energy. It would help him do what he needed to do. Dematerialize. Reconstitute a body in better shape than this one.
The wand was there but dead. Nothing happened. He was body-bound. He had not been bound to a single body for years, much less one in this appalling condition. He cursed extravagantly, except it all came out as a near-voiceless croak, and for all that, the profanity was not even satisfying. It simply made clear to him just how dry his mouth was, and how pained his throat, as though he'd been shouting for hours. Shouting and laughing and chanting vile incantations ... because, of course, he had been ...
It was then that he remembered almost everything. Not the important parts, clearly.
Gingerly, he opened his eyes to a blurry sky, circled by blurry rooftops. Everything blurred. His glasses were broken. He realized his discomfort was being compounded by the stones that dug into his back; his cloak provided inadequate padding indeed against the surface of what was, in fact, a road.
He was profoundly uncomfortable and profoundly unhappy. And he was Lezard Valeth, greatest mage of his generation, perhaps greatest mage in all history, lying like an exhausted dog in the middle of the road. The sheer injustice of it all just made him that much more exhausted. He shut his eyes again.
He'd move in ... just a moment. After he tried to rest.
With awareness came disorientation. Where am I? Awareness was pain first, not even an understanding what hurt or why, only pain. It hurt, something hurt, that was all he knew. It -- he -- hurt like someone had tied him to a carriage hitch and dragged him down a cobbled road.
He knew who he was, of course. That wasn't a pressing concern. Only thing was, he ought not to hurt this badly. Groaning, he flung a hand reflexively over his face to dim the brightness that beat crimson through eyelids shut tight. The scuffed leather of his glove was excruciatingly rough against a bruised cheekbone; wincing, he dropped his hand, resigning himself to the sun. This would not do --
ugh. With his other hand, he fumbled in his cloak for the magic wand he knew was there. He didn't need the wand to cast spells, but it amplified and channeled sorcerous energy. It would help him do what he needed to do. Dematerialize. Reconstitute a body in better shape than this one.
The wand was there but dead. Nothing happened. He was body-bound. He had not been bound to a single body for years, much less one in this appalling condition. He cursed extravagantly, except it all came out as a near-voiceless croak, and for all that, the profanity was not even satisfying. It simply made clear to him just how dry his mouth was, and how pained his throat, as though he'd been shouting for hours. Shouting and laughing and chanting vile incantations ... because, of course, he had been ...
It was then that he remembered almost everything. Not the important parts, clearly.
Gingerly, he opened his eyes to a blurry sky, circled by blurry rooftops. Everything blurred. His glasses were broken. He realized his discomfort was being compounded by the stones that dug into his back; his cloak provided inadequate padding indeed against the surface of what was, in fact, a road.
He was profoundly uncomfortable and profoundly unhappy. And he was Lezard Valeth, greatest mage of his generation, perhaps greatest mage in all history, lying like an exhausted dog in the middle of the road. The sheer injustice of it all just made him that much more exhausted. He shut his eyes again.
He'd move in ... just a moment. After he tried to rest.