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December 6, 2008, 2:13 am

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Phontokil's Phosphorous Mines

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Matchmaker, Matchmaker, make me a match!

When Phontokil was thrown out of Adim-Berru, for nearly causing the destruction of said city by conflagration, the wizard did not seethe nor vow vengeance. Nor did he laugh maniacally, nor mutter something about ‘no one understanding his genius’. Phontokil simply decided to seek his own way and explore the world, since the middling-mage had never before been outside the walls of Adim-Berru. For the last seven years of his life, Phontokil had been an apprentice to two different Pyromancers, and a piss-poor one at that.

Now, let it not be said that Phontokil had some aversion to fire, and for that reason made a bad pyromancer. On the contrary, the red-haired novice with mischievous, sea-green eyes, had been obsessed with fire from an early age, and that was not the cause of his stagnation in sorcery. Phontikal made a poor mage because his interests lay more in the hows and whys of fire than in the actual magic. He was obsessed with things that caused, fanned, flamed and extinguished fire. He was obsessed with the Element itself, and silently balked at the explanations provided him by his masters, when they explained to him the ways of the gods and paths of magic. The young mage’s talents furthermore, lay more in practical alchemy rather than pyromancy, as he himself soon came to learn.



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Comments ( 1 )
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Moonlake
June 26, 2015, 19:55
0xp
Reading the summary, my first thought was that this guy wanted a bride.


Random Idea Seed View All Idea Seeds

       By: ephemeralstability

The Nomin gypsies have a fiddling competition every year, known as the Danse de Velose. Beaters hit out the rhythm on taut drums and the competitors start to play, slowly at first. Youngsters can compete, but are soon pulled away by worried mothers, before the competition becomes too dangerous. After two hours the haunting tune has become dazzlingly fast. You can resign at any time, but the moment you make a mistake you receive an arrow through the neck. Strings may snap, but the players must play on. The whole affair never lasts much longer than three hours, and the last fiddler playing is crowned king of the gypsies.

Ideas  ( NPCs ) | June 9, 2003 | View | UpVote 1xp


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