WISDOM’S TEETH LEAVE SCARS
Meet Harold. He is a sorcerer. The land of Pompitope is where he hails from.
It looks like a pretty dull place to the trained and educated eye.
It’s a paradise to the naive.
All the up and coming sorcerers think this place is a stepping stone; it’s where they’ll take a step above.
Harold and his friends all have this big dream of being the most discussed, most debated of their kind in all of Pompitope.
They had heard stories though, that whenever the young and inspired come back from atop the summit of Mount Nuent, that they come back with but one thing.
And it depressed them.
And no one questioned why. Noone was allowed to get a word in on the matter in fact; all the young Sorcerers just went back to work.
And work was all they considered it by this point. Not fun, not a hobby, just work. They considered this a way to making a living, they weren’t embracing it as a way of life; they were making it the means for which to pay the cost of living.
Harold and his friends had heard these whispers, but took no heed of their warnings. They would travel to Mount Nuent, and they vowed they would come back to their homeland with a zest for life, the means to take it head on and embrace its ups and downs.
This would be their greatest test, they diligently researched every spell they could learn, and even reminded themselves of the spells they had already practiced and mastered time and again, and they would journey to Nuent at the fourth setting of the suns that day.
When that moment came, ‘Harold’s Hoarde’ as the villagers called them, made their way to the mountain. As they ascended, the fearsome conditions, as predicted by them, provided the test of endurance.
Violent winds threatened to sweep them off their feet, but a wave of their wands made them lighter than air.
A treacherous and raging waterfall stood between them and the next stage of the path, but a wave of their wands forged a steep bridge connecting them to the other side of the mountain.
Howling masked banshees that clung to the sides of the cliffs reached out to tempt the men, but the Wizards set about unmasking each of them, and with a wave of their wands, they created mirrors for each of them. Transfixed by their own beauty, the banshees left the Wizards to ascend the remainder of the mountain.
Finally, they reached their destination, and were awarded with an audience with the wise Wizards of the land. Those fables had decreed to be so powerful, that they possessed the means to create life itself.
Harold and his friends asked if they could bring something to life, something with raw, potent emotion, a zest for life, and had flaws it would have to overcome.
The wise Wizards, excited, began discussing what the creature would look like. After a couple of hours, it became clear this was all they were discussing.
Nothing about what kind of flaws it would have, what conceptions of faith could challenge its belief in itself, what causes it could join to determine in its long life if it would serve a great good or evil. None of that, the wise Wizards wanted to know if it should have a fourth eye or a seventh sense.
Harold argued that the creature had to make sense.
The wise Wizards laughed at this, and replied “It’s magic, it doesn’t have to make sense”
Harold and his friends gritted their teeth, and opted to depart Nuent that night, and returned home earlier than scheduled. They put their wands away, they greeted their wives and kids with a warm embrace and from there sought out a job in the local paper, looking to make ends meet.
They had gained wisdom that evening, and learned their most bitter lesson.
Harold’s hoard would work hard to serve life rather than challenge it, they would pay the bills, they would raise the next generation, and they would give them a different kind of advice. They hoped that their wisdom would leave no trace of the scars their own epiphanies had provided.
Life had to make sense of itself, or all its creatures would lose all sense of it.