One Wicked Warlock

There is a tall tower to the north. It is made of stone that looks a common gray from afar. But I have been close enough to see the stone shift hues, to glitter with the gilded veins of an otherworldly ore, to fade into a pale so utmost as to be nigh invisible.

A warlock once lived there, it is said. Now the tower is abandoned.

But that does not mean is it safe.

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The royal physician, Galena by name, examined the festering bruise just below the king’s ribcage. The king lay in a sleeping stupor. A state he had been in for three days, and yet it was only now, and only by order of the queen that the royal physician was allowed to examine her king.

Galena peered down at the bruise, around the margins of which there appeared an oozing of bright purple fluid.

“I had thought him a fool, but a harmless one,” the queen said.

Galena did not look up as she answered. “Is there such a thing?”

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Death and The Healer

Once, long ago in an almost forgotten age, there lived a healer of great skill and great compassion. Her name was Gwenmir, but she was known as the healer Wen. The healer Wen became well-loved in her village for her skill at easing pain and healing wounds so severe that it seemed she would snatch people from the clutches of death at the last moment. She stitched up flesh with the skill of a fine tailor. She cooled fevers with herbs and special tinctures. She mended broken and even shattered bones with potions from the inside and splints from outside. News of her arrival raised hopes and lifted spirits. The sight of her face was said to be like the sight of sunlight after a dark and fearful night.

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