proof of stupidity

Last weekend I visited a medieval market in Knobblyville together with a friend of mine. She isn’t much into dressing up, but she loves watching people stare at me in one of my creations. You see, I love dressing up. So, last weekend I wore my beautiful Robe à la Francaise, which I made according to the human Rokoko fashion.
Therefore people were staring at me and taking pictures of me all the time. I love the attention. As we strode over the market, looking at all the beautiful goods on sale and enjoying the ambience, I noticed that they were advertising a costume contest for later that day. Anyone interested could take part. Obviously, I decided this would be great fun and I could possibly even make some money out of my hobby.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know where to register for the contest so we just asked one of the imps at a beverages stall and she said we only had to show up in time for the start of the contest.
I looked at the plan that lay out at the stall. 17:45. That meant we had quite some more time to spend shopping and people watching. As the time neared 17:30 we went to the stage, already discussing how we would spend the price money – not that I was overly confident, but it is a great dress. There was a band playing on the stage and lots of people standing around but none of them looked like competition for me.
The band played their last tune and went off stage but no one announced the costume contest and then we noticed a huge sign that said this was stage 1. There was more than one stage! Were we at the wrong one? We hastened – a lady in a Robe à la Francaise never runs – to the nearest beverage stall and checked the listings once more. There it was, costume competition stage 2. Damn.
Off we went right across the whole market trying to reach stage two before it was too late. But when we got there the stage area was curiously empty. Again there were no competitors, but I could make out the herald I had seen doing the announcing before. We went to him and asked him whether they would start with the costume competition now.
He raised his eyebrows. “We just finished the competition.”
“WHAT?” it broke out of me. “But it says on the schedule that the costume competition starts at 17:45!”
“That’s impossible,” the herald answered while getting out his own copy of the schedule. “See here-“ he pointed at the relevant entry, “Costume competition starts at 5 o’clock and lasts approximately until quarter to six.”
And there it was on black and white. I had read the schedule wrong. How embarrassing! Luckily the herald was a nice guy and didn’t laugh at us all too much.

visiting the Ishta prison

A few days ago I was informed that the Ishta who had attacked Cromvik and me had been caught and was now in the Ishta prison. I don’t know why, but after work I went straight there to visit.
As I stood there in front of his prison cell, separated from him by a see-through magical wall, all manner of thoughts ran through me. He was staring at me, with no sign of recognition. Jaron was his name, but according to the guard who had brought me to his cell, he didn’t react to that name anymore. He was completely lost in his self-made madness. His shiny silver eyes fixed on me but I could see, I was of no interest to him. Without the magical shield this might have been different. Jaron would have felt drawn to me then, because of my strong magical abilities.
I couldn’t help but think that if it hadn’t been for some much needed intervention, I probably would have ended up just like Jaron many years ago.
I heard steps coming from the entrance and ripped myself free of Jaron’s gaze long enough to see who was coming. The guard was bringing a second visitor: Cromvik. Why was he here? I turned back to the cell, not wanting to look at Cromvik. We hadn’t talked since he found out about the silver flecks blemishing my eyes. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I kept quiet, acknowledging his greeting merely with a nod.
For a long time, we stood in silence, watching Jaron sit apathetically on his bed. I noticed that while Jaron met my eyes frequently, he never stared into Cromvik’s. Could he feel that I was much closer to him, to his state, than Cromvik? The thought made me nauseous.
“How did it happen?” his smooth voice echoed through the long hall even though he all but whispered.
I was tempted to ignore his question or pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about, but somehow I felt that I owed him an explanation. “It happened a long time ago. I was young and stupidly wanted to impress someone with my power and my knowledge.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him nod. “You must have been pretty far along. How did you get out of it?”
“A friend.” I kept my answer short, hoping that he would leave it at that.
“You must have had a strong connection if he was able to talk sense into you in that state,” Cromvik commented and I just couldn’t leave it at that. He had to know the truth.
I turned to him and locked eyes with him. “He tried. It didn’t work. He tried hard and got killed for it. It was his death that got to me. His death that keeps me from giving in to the urges I feel from time to time. His death that brought me back to life.”
After that I left without looking back. I had to get out of that prison, before the memories swamped me and I broke down.

found a new hobby

Humans have invented a cool thing called Cosplay. Basically you find a character in a Manga, Anime or movie and then you replicate said character in the greatest detail possible. Some might call this crazy. I myself call it a wonderful challenge. Just imagine all the kinds of characters out there, just waiting to be cosplayed. Of course, I already looked around both in Imprana as well as the human world and I found a character I would love to cosplay. It is Queen Esther from Trinity Blood. Here’s a picture:


Isn’t it amazing? Ok, it is going to be an awful lot of work and I will need a lot of time and material, but I can’t wait to start. I am very much looking forward to striding around as a queen.

Attack of a lunatic

Knobblyville University is very proud of the fact that they have a large number of well accredited profassurs among their staff. I don’t much like them. Their usually pompous and self involved and treat me like a peasant. There is only one profassur that I can really stand the sight of which is probably why he’s the one who comes to my HoK most often. I bet the other profassurs are always asking Cromvik to bring back their loans, ask their research questions and so on and so forth. I’m not sure how Cromvik thinks about that arrangement, but for me it works just fine. I only have to talk to the one profassur I like.
When I looked up from my reference desk yesterday to see Cromvik enter the HoK, a rare smile came to my lips. His bold features and charming smile were a welcome sight.
“Hi Venimalia,” he greeted me while pulling a form from his bag. “I’ve got a delivery for you.”
One glance at the form and I knew what kind of delivery it was. He had created a new level four stone. See, there are three common levels for memory stones: the easy to open first level that sport a blue color, level two stones for the medium magician in green, and the red level three stones that are hard to handle. Those three levels are shelved in my HoK and freely accessible. But there is the rare ability or piece of knowledge so powerful that it has to be put into a level four stone. Because of their great value and the enormous amount of magic locked inside them, these stones are kept in a vault specially designed for holding them.
Cromvik accompanied me to the heavy duty door that separated that section of the HoK from the rest. Only there, away from prying eyes, he took the iridescent black stone out of his bag. Even through it’s casing, I could feel the magic inside the stone pulsing.
I took the case carefully and left Cromvik to guard the door while I opened the vault with the magic spell only I know. I don’t trust anyone else to enter this special room.
Before I stepped inside, I put up a shield against the magic diffusing out of the stones in the room. Unfortunately, level four stones hold such great amounts of magic that some of it always escapes into the room around them. That is why I have to keep a power collector in the room at all times.
I put the new stone into a shelf and went over to look at the level of the power collector. It was almost full, so I took it with me to give to Cromvik. They can always use some extra magic at the university.
As I got to the door, I heard a loud yell and realized too late that it had come from Cromvik. He was shoved backwards by a strong ball of magic. When Cromvik crashed into me, I lost the grip on the power collector and fell, hitting my head on the stone floor. Through hazy eyes I saw the power collector had broken and tried to get my weary brain to channel the escaping magic.
I couldn’t do it, but Cromvik reacted quickly. He was back on his feet within seconds, channeling the magic from the power collector and hitting the attacker right in the centre of his chest. As hazy as my gaze was, I still saw the silver sheen on the attackers eyes before he went down. He was an Ishta, an imp who had taken to much magic and knowledge into his body, thereby frying his brain and getting addicted to magic.
Cromvik knelt down next to me and helped me sit up. “Are you alright? I…” His words faded away when he looked into my eyes. Most of the time I don’t care if anyone sees the silver flecks shading them, but for some reason it felt bad to have Cromvik know how close I was to becoming an Ishta myself.