He was frantically pointing towards the glowing mountain. “We need to cast The Spell!”, Bothar screamed!
I held up the scroll we all had risked our lives to get. “Nobody can cast this spell without a prepared mystic space and ritual equipment. It would be suicide,” I said. “Not even him,” I jerked my thumb towards the Magi who smiled slyly.
Silently, he unstrapped that bolt of cloth he had been carrying since I had known him. He unfurled it, tamped it down, with small spikes, pulled a small apothecary chest out, placed and lit four candles on the cloth, drew some lines with some handy chalk, unpacked his remaining tools, then he held his hand out expectantly for the scroll. It took a fraction of a candle mark.
“Solomontic Rug,” he said quietly. “The key to mastery is knowing and having the right tools, be they physical, mental, or magical, and having them ready when you need them.”
Beware of towns afflicted with Time Cancer.
For every second you progress through time, an infected town goes back 48 hours. Old buildings slowly become new, then incomplete, and finally just a frame and foundation, giant old trees turn to saplings, birds hatch into eggs.
one must not linger in a chrono-cancerous village for too long, before you know it you'll be a fetus. Tme cancer in unstoppable, no cure or treatment is knwn, it eats through the past until the inhabitants of a village turn into primordial protein ooze