15 ♦ Alistar

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Woodwind Magic

I'm naked save my socks as I lower my flute from my lips and glance over my shoulder. A wraith passed through here; or perhaps, an information scan. Something entered and exited time-space, too quickly to see, yet certainly at a distinct octave, a decibel I've been trained to hear.


Harmony of the Human World

At first, I thought I heard a disruption in the Harmony of the Human World; the twang of someone, or something, passing away. These wavelengths are only distinguishable with perfect hearing, perfect pitch, and even then, the Wizardhood had to enable me. Now I practice music religiously, every morning—keeping my ears sharp.

Who pried? Who died?

What disturbance did I just detect?

Now that I'm Lord of Verdants, here on Third Street, life is a wee bit better. I have the luxury to worry about who's spying on me, rather than what I'll eat, where I'll sleep, when I'll next scrub the rank out of my clothes.

My double-studio is alive with the shadows of plants twisting from tall, glazed urns up along thatched poles, into the wooden lattice of my cathedralesque ceiling—it's like a half-cathedral ceiling, like a compact version—and this oneness with nature, with my plants and architecture and the simple joys of life, make me happy.

Except when people spy on me...

What was that wavelength I heard?—it nags me!

Nags me.



Lords & Ladies of the Wizardhood

Behind me, my forest green robes—accentuated with thick, mint stitching, like all the Chosen Verdants who came before—sway from a mahogany hanger, which I've perched on the curtain rod of my ovular, seed-shaped window, the single petal of an anise of windows that's since been scattered to all the double-wide Lords-and-Lady chambers, across the Seven Streets of the Wizardhood, like artifacts from another era.

All Chosens live in either a double-room cottage, or a double-wide studio lit by the same, curvy window, and it's classy. It's good tastes. As much as I dislike the actual power and responsibility endowed to my position, I appreciate the tradition and story in my chamber's crackled, stained glass windows, no doubt about that.

The sun is still passing like a hot iron through the window's lime glow, a backdrop of filtered light. It looks like I practiced my music a bit longer than normal; so I can't fault myself for wanting to delay the Choosing Ceremony, to disapprove of archaic selection methods, to just get it over with because I procrastinated.

But what about that wavelength?



"Hey, Ollen."

Two walls light up in an L-shape of brilliant LEDs, undulating different shades of green, as well as a few red embers like fires, golds like liquids. The rippling of my AI-powered wall is much deeper than the artificial projections in Ovelia's chamber—and thrice as quick to react as the double-wide tech inherited by Aleria, Chosen of the Violet—and I would know, since my old equipment was what Lord Hahn recycled into Aleria's chamber.

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