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The Art of Craft

October 26, 2010

Over time, Zavier has now levelled to 450 the following primary professions: skinning, herbalism, engineering, inscription and alchemy. At the moment, though he does not know one end of a skinning knife from another, one flower is much like another and his encyclopaedic knowledge of glyphs has dwindled to nothing. I can only speculate on why.


Shield slung negligently over one shoulder, the elven knight strolled into the alchemical workshop he had tracked the undead monstrosity to and coughed politely. Then he coughed with considerably less studied elegance and groped frantically for a perfumed cloth. It was hard to decide he mused which smell was the worst; there was the stench of evil and the whiff of decay arising from the animated corpse of the death knight, there was the thick cloying scent of the elixir and then there was the animal stink of orc. Overall, he suspected that the orc smell was probably the winner but he wished he had not had to judge. Was it really so difficult for undead orc’s to bathe? Or use cologne?

Zavier ignored the paladin’s posturing while he carefully tipped the result of his work into a thick vial and labelled it. He knew the elf was there and was ready to move if he contemplated betrayal but other than that he went on methodically with his work. He felt no particular need to be polite. Simion had walked in without knocking and still coated with the Light based magic he worked. While it did not harm Zavier, it was distinctly uncomfortable and the death knight thought he was being quite forbearing enough by not lifting his axe and removing the offending party directly.

Once he had finished, he turned unhurriedly around and nodded briefly to his colleague. “Morning.”

“It’s evening,” Simion noted tartly.

“I’m a creature of the night, my time is just starting.”

Simion snorted. “I’ve never noticed the Scourge being particularly more potent at night or weaker in the day.”

The death knight grinned, his teeth startlingly white in the blackened unwholesome looking skin. “A fair point,” he agreed, “so, what do you need from me.”

“You’re the Commune’s expert in rune magic. I was looking for some additional power.”

Zavier snorted. “It’s ages since I bothered with anything beyond the easy necromantic runes I put on my blades, I’m not sure I can remember any of them.” He shrugged, “Well, my gear is in storage.”

Some time later, Zavier threw up his hands in disgust looking at the piece of vellum he had been carefully tracing runes onto. A bright golden fire burned on it, charring the lines into uselessness and he snarled at it. The light stung his eyes which implied he had managed to evoke the correct band of energy but it was just not properly controlled. Absorbed in his alchemical studies, he had lost the perfect precision of line that the glyphs required and they were just not working.

He hated to confess failure to the paladin but in the end looked up and shrugged. “You’d better go and speak to someone else about this. I’m just too out of practice.”


It makes sense in one way of course. How much of what you studied 10 years ago can you remember?

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