Zing! And just like that, the evil Count
Simon was turned into a newt. Albi
brushed his hands off, nodding in approval of his fine work.
I’m
sorry, you entered in the middle of me telling a story. Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt
someone when he’s speaking? What
was that? You’d like to hear my
tale? Well, I suppose I can back
up and start again. The other
listeners won’t be pleased, but they’ll just have to make the sacrifice for
your sake. Okay. Here we go.
And
that was how the kingdom was saved from the maleficent dragon for the third
time by our story’s hero, Albi the wizard.
I
didn’t back up far enough? Picky,
picky. Fine. From the very beginning.
On
the twelfth of November in the early 13th century, a beautiful baby
boy was born to two happy peasant parents. They had wanted a child for years, but their wishes were
never granted. When the mother
learned she had a baby—she actually didn’t realize it until that very day—she
could not contain her excitement.
From her bed, she yelled to all her neighbors the good news. They were of course pleased for her,
but they secretly wished she would keep her voice down. It was four in the morning, after all.
The
first order of business for the new parents was to name their son. They did not know he was coming, so
they had not taken the time to brainstorm. The father wanted to name him John, after the long male
lineage of Johns in their family.
The mother desired him to be called Chrysanthemum, after her favorite
flower. They compromised and settled
on Albert. They were a very
agreeable couple that had no scuffles.
After calling their baby son Albert a few times, they determined that
his name was a mouthful, so they shortened it to Albi. They were agreeable but illogical.
Albi
was a handful of a kid, not because of his magical powers, but because he was
your standard, run-of-the-mill, obnoxious schoolboy. Take note of the magical powers part; it might be important
later. Who am I kidding, it will
be important later, so pay attention.
Anyway,
Albi lived his life like a normal boy, going to school, roughhousing in the
abandoned cornfield, role-playing that he was a wizard, you know, the
usual. Except he wasn’t pretending
he was a wizard, but he didn’t realize it at the time. No, he didn’t fully know he had magic
infused in him until one fateful day during his thirteenth year of life.
That
was the day the dragon first attacked Albi’s village.
The
gigantic, fang-baring, fire-breathing, scale-wearing fiend swooped down without
warning in the middle of the night.
To make a sad story short, within five minutes there was almost nothing
left in the town. Fortunately,
most of the inhabitants survived, but they were now without homes, food, or
livelihoods. Now how does this
relate to Albi’s discovery of his magical powers? I’ll tell you.
When
the dragon soared overhead, Albi subconsciously started spewing out nonsense
words. It was a blur of consonants
and vowels, somehow strung together in a logical enough pattern for something
grand to happen. You might even
say it was magical. Well, of
course you would: it was magic. Out of his hands came little sparks, shooting in wild
directions. For the first four
minutes of the dragon’s attack, Albi was so engrossed in the ongoing destruction
that he failed to realize what he was doing. During the final minute, he finally glanced down at his
sparking hands, now glowing with enchanted forces. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off his digits, so he never
saw the dragon finally leave. As a
teenager, Albi had a one-track mind: once something commanded his attention, he was all there. And now his focus was fully on his
newly discovered magic.
For
the next ten years, Albi practiced daily, nightly, and everything in between to
hone his powers. He progressed
from harmless sparks to dangerous flames.
From changing tadpoles to frogs (not that impressive), to transforming frogs
to toads (which requires sufficient biological knowledge). From making potions that tasted funny,
to creating concoctions that tasted funny but also gave the drinker unlimited
wisdom for ten minutes. By the end
of this montage-esque chronology, Albi had become quite the proficient magician. He could not be called a wizard yet;
that requires validation from a king.
So that’s what Albi sought out to get.
For
seven days and four nights (he was learning to control time, too), the
burgeoning magician trekked to the kingdom’s capital, where he planned to meet
the king, show off his magic, and earn the title of wizard. And that is precisely what
happened. What, you thought he was
going to run into monsters and other obstacles along the way? Or that the king wouldn’t be there? What do you think this is, some sort of
half rate fairy tale? No, when
Albi demonstrated his magic to the king, he immediately appointed Albi as Head
Wizard of the kingdom. Along with
the title came one important task:
slaying the dragon, which had been rampaging village after village for
generations. Albi solemnly
accepted.
Now,
the dragon was not one to exclude others, so it didn’t limit its preying to
Albi’s kingdom. That destruction
only occupied half of the dragon’s time.
The remaining portion was devoted to ransacking the neighboring
kingdom. A kingdom where another
person of magic resided.
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