… and before he could wake, the adventures of his youthful travels swarmed his head as he laid in his creaky old bed. Old age comes on suddenly and not gradually as is thought.
There is something to be said about a mage whose beard has turned to white. When the sun and moon have circled GIelinor for decades, living life is enslaved to time and the tortures that comes with it. "Where have the years gone?" he pondered. "What has become of this life that I've lived?"
The grizzled mage rose out of bed and stumbled over to his lectern, picking up his quill pen. This was a daily routine for him; stroking the pen against the papyrus, scribing his dreams the night prior. It was just recent he began to take notes of his visions and to leave notes for his daily labors. His quick wit and instant recollection had begun to diminish. His once agile body ached and his ability to recall spells and enchantments had become difficult.
"Eye of Newt, yes. Forgot that yesterday," he chuckled. A few more items which lingered in his head were added to the list.
The front door became rattled with knocks
.
He lifted his head from the lectern, peering at the door. His eyebrows raised and he reached for his staff. It was unusual for someone to have found his abode. He slowly made his way to the door.
A young man, in his early 20s, stood in white armor. His sword was sheathed and his helm was up, hands free of weapons.
"Are you Risk Wizard?" the man asked.
"When I remember," the mage responded. "What brings you here?"
"Do you mind if I enter?" the man questioned, raising his right hand in a handshake gesture. "I've come from Falador and am seeking your guidance and past lore."
The door slammed shut. Risk Wizard sighed, closed his eyes, and re-opened the door.
"Come on in," he responded, with reluctance. "I suppose someone spoke great fables of me, didn't they?"
"By the sounds of it," the man responded, "I've come to the right place."
Retired
