I held a spell in my hands. The sparkling embers in my hands danced in the cold night’s air. The wind extinguishes its light and once more I sit in the dark. After pondering the phantom glow, I head to my chambers to rest. My name is Ragnar Storm-cloak and for all my life I could harness a rare power that dwells in the history of our kingdom. Powerful mages of old-inhabited this land before us and had the inborn ability to use magic. I am one of few people who are related to these mages and I dedicate my life to studying the ways of magic. Unlike them, I can’t conjure magic from the air around me, instead, I must draw from springs that were left behind by my ancestors. My kind were once fierce heroes but times have changed and I must use my gift for other means.
I wake up the next morning and put on a ragged cloak. Being a bearer of magic, I live to serve in my lord's castle in hopes of survival after a failed career as a hero. Large tankards of mead, endless piles of pheasant, entire hogs roasted over an open flame. My lord, Profuses The XIII otherwise known as the “Gluttonous King” makes sure I have a roof over my head and in return, I duplicate his pantry with my magic. I enter my lord's court and kneel before his majesty. “More mead!” says the Gluttonous King to the house carl. He then looks down at me and barks from his crumb incrested mouth “Wizard! My pantry is nearly empty! I request that you replenish my stores at once!”. The smell of mead and pheasant wafts from his greedy jaws and fills my nostrils, the smell alone reminds me of my duties and I head for the cellar. For once, my lord spoke with no hyperbole, the pantry was nearly empty, and I just refilled it the other day. With a wave of my hand, pheasant and hog that were once one, become two, and then three. I clench my hand to stop the duplication and take my leave.
I return to the throne and kneel before my majesty yet again. “I have replenished your cellar, my lord,” I say holding my hand to my heart. The King turns his many slimy necks in my direction. He lets out a greasy, Guttral cackle, sending foul beads of meaty juices into my eyes. In that moment, a lifetime of servitude must come to an end. I wipe the grease from my eyes and with a swift gesture, I refine the mountains of lard that sat on top of the throne. I watch the fire’s embers twinkle in the air accompanied by the screams of the wretched king and I cackle. Once again, like many times before, I hold a spell in my hands, and as always, the wind extinguishes its light. The court grows silent and the smell of charred pheasant fills the air.