The Wonderful World of Wizards

	Upstate New York was chilly this time of year. The leaves were turning, and the last pangs of summer heat were dissipating as August reluctantly slid into September. One would come to expect a variety of empty winds whipping through the trees, kicking up unzipped jackets and undoing hours of frivolous hair styling. Not that this was much a problem at all for Rose Lalonde, who did nothing extravagant with her short blonde hair, instead preferring to simply keep it well brushed and maintained under a lavender hair band.

	The grounds of her manor at Rainbow Falls were lavish and expansive, surrounded by many hundreds of acres of lush foliage and assorted things of the wild. Being a solitary girl for the most part (And to better avoid and vex her wretched shrew of a mother), Rose found the surrounding wooded area to be a lovely place to take extensive walks, ponder her writing, or perhaps the antics of her estranged friends, whom she only knew via an electronic medium. It's said that solitude can bring great reflection and wisdom, but also madness, if unmitigated. Even outrageously wealthy thirteen year old girls feel the tug and pull of loneliness, made even more bothersome with a series of hobbies that didn't require her to leave the comfort of her desk (And even from under the covers of her bed, on some days).

	Not that every hobby kept her inside, of course.

	Rose made her way from the immediate sanctity of her lavish postmodern home, a light pink jacket thrown on over her typical Squiddle t-shirt and skirt ensemble. She'd not even bothered to zip herself up; she knew she wouldn't be wearing it for very long, anyway. Out of paranoid habit she checked her right and her left for the curvy figure of her troublesome inebriated parent figure. In her right arm she clutched a modest paper bag, a layer of cloth near the top obscuring the contents therein. Once she was certain that her mother was nowhere to be seen, she made a mad dash for the tree line, allowing her normally deadpan expression to briefly curve into a noticeable smile. Breaking through the first few yards of foliage, Rose brought herself to an even trot as she found her most commonly traversed trail. The path felt almost like an old friend to her, with years of history and memories beaten into the dirt by pair after pair of designer orchid sneakers.

	She walked for about ten minutes, checking over her shoulders as she did so, before coming to a small clearing. It was about fifty feet across, with a small fire ring in the center. The discarded beer cans and accompanying graffiti on a nearby tree led Rose to believe that this spot was popular among students at one of the many nearby colleges. She'd always dreaded a chance encounter with a slew of drunken Tigers or Yellowjackets. But those were Rose Lalonde's fears.

	A sudden gust of wind tore through the clearing, catching Rose off guard and making a troublesome flurry of her open jacket. She readjusted herself and relinquished the paper bag, setting on the ground and removing her coat. Tossing it to a nearby log, she grabbed the obscuring cloth from the top of the paper bag, flourishing the pink silk around her in a fantastical pinwheel. She quickly secured the garment around her neck with a pair of dignified snaps. Rose's head darted from side to side; healthy paranoia had saved her on more than one occasion in the past. Finally sure that no one had followed her, she probed the bag once more, securing a delicate instrument: A slender wooden wand, carved of the finest polished cocobolo. With a flurry of arcane gestures, she held aloft the wand, cracking a smug grin.

	It would take a helluva lot more than a cold breeze and a few drunken college students to contest Rosendawn, Fallen Archmage of the Shadowbright.

	Rose made quick work of the rest of the bag's contents, emptying them onto a nearby stump: An assortment of herbs and spices nicked from the kitchen, a small black handled knife, a hardly fashionable but serviceable knitted conical wizards hat, various woolen effigies, each offering their likeness to a different eldritch terror, a black leather-bound journal whose cover read "Grimore of the Order of Cabal", some chalk and coal, and a bottle of red wine whose vandalized label now read "Blood of the Anointed" in teeline shorthand.

	Rose grabbed the hat, sliding it around her head and doing her best to keep it point erect.
	"Goddamn lousy stupid knitted garbage." She muttered to herself. Once satisfied with the appearance of her headwear (Hats are very important to pleasing the whims of the dark gods, you know), she quickly went to work with her assortment of magical supplies. She grabbed one of the knitted effigies and turned it in her hand, giving it a once-over of approval before closing her eyes and exhaling deeply. She turned on one heel, pointing her wand at empty space, a stern expression across her face.

	"Qorwyn," she began, holding the wand fast, "You're awfully sneaky for an elf of your stature." There was a pause, "What? You think I wouldn't realize? Ha! You forget yourself when in my presence, apparently." She held up the effigy, a gentle wind making its various appendages sway, "I found this in your office while you were traipsing about in the barren wastes of the Mortar Lands. You ought to be more gracious with your housekeeping." Another pause. Rose donned a smug grin and laughed, "And you really expect me to believe that? You and your fellow cultists are an affront to everything my order stands for!" She flicked her wand, making a quick cracking noise with her mouth. She pantomimed a blazing bolt of energy spidering from the tip of her wand, setting the effigy ablaze. She tossed it to the side, wiggling her fingers as if to mimic smoke.

	"Now then, Qorwyn. Now that I've disposed of the rubbish, we can talk at greater length," She began pacing, pretending as though she were an interrogator to a frightened criminal, "Why would you do this to yourself? To tarnish both your name and that of the order that I founded. I don't believe I have to remind you that I am the Fallen; I am outranked only by Mizztelkin and his ilk of the Circle of the Forever Encrypted. And you," She cocked a sly glance at the air, "You are barely a journeyman." There was silence for a moment. Rose drew an expression of surprise and disgust.

	"Qorwyn, you fool! How can you even think that the cult of Truk'insaar would allow you to ascend so quickly! They are tricksters, the lot of them! Foul men that know nothing of honor and true magical power!" She quickly looked insulted, "Ironic? How dare you, caitiff! I am your senior in everything but age, elf. You'll hold your tongue or I shall see to it that you are consumed by the gremlin hordes on the Passing of the Twelfth Moon. I possess more honor in one strand of my lush beard than you in your entire miserable fey body!" She flung herself back, clutching her right shoulder with her left hand, grimacing, as if in pain.

	"My point exactly!" She held her want aloft and took a fighting stance, "Now bow, elf, as I show you the true power of the Wizard of the Shadowbright! May the Swimmers in the Ichor find your pitiful essence most detestable!" Rose brought her wand down in one powerful stroke. By chance, a powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing, making Rose grin from ear to ear and nature playing in with her effect. As she dodged imaginary bolts of lighting, she heard a telltale glass clink, turning to notice that her bottle of wine had toppled in the breeze and had popped open, spilling its contents on the dry forest floor.

	"Oh hell," she said as she ran over to the nearby stump, righting the bottle and corking it with haste. She sighed and placed the bottle inside of the empty bag, securing the valuable bandol contents. Rose scampered back over to her duel, frozen in time, and resumed slinging spells. This continued for several minutes, Rose tucking and rolling to dodge blasts of arcane power and the attacks of summoned monsters, countering with her own fell strokes of energy and unholy minions. After a time, though, there was only so much that poor, foolish Qorwyn could do to defend himself, and he succumbed to the power of a true Wizard of the Shadowbright.

	"You damn fool, Qorwyn," Rose muttered, grabbing the invisible man by the collar and hoisting him to her eye level, "All you had to do was wait and learn. You showed true potential. I..." She trailed off, looking wistfully to the side, then back at her elf, "We could have been so much more, Qorwyn." She held back tears, unsure if they were real or simply incredibly convincing acting, "But you brought this upon yourself. It must be done."

	She scampered around the clearing a few times, slowing her pace into a brooding stride, pausing every few moments for several lines of a lengthy reflective speech, lamenting the loss of her friend and apprentice. Yet somehow she found the will to move on, dragging the paralyzed body of her companion back to her tower, sequestered deep in the rocky crag of Rhexnor.

	Rose bounded over to the stump and secured her charcoal, chalk, herbs, dagger, and bottle of "blood". She busied herself with drawing an elaborate arcane diagram, muttering incantations and condolences both as she pondered and reflected. Rosendawn had come far since his first apprenticeship. He'd earned the title of Fallen, and now was one of the most well respected whisker-wigglers in all of Rhexnor, the nation of wizards. Indeed, it had been a harrowing journey, but worth every step taken and every backfired spell. Rose had become an accomplished duelist and slain many a necromancer and dragon, furthering the questionable designs of her own order.

	She would have to finish her soliloquy later; the diagram was complete. She knelt before Qorwyn, now fully anointed in blood and herb, was ready to be sacrificed to the might of the terrible Sylator, Jack of the Dead.

	"Father, guardian, dreaming dead, deliver me to where I may rest my head," She chanted as she rubbed coriander on the blade of her dagger, "Destroy my foes, one by one, as I deliver this offering come. Fell the moon, burn dry the sea. As I will it, so mote it be!" She thrust the dagger skyward, another excitable gust of wind sweeping the clearing. Rose grinned, but wiped her face clean and became serious once again; there was business to attend to. Certain that she was alone in the basement of her tower; she reached out to the head of her imaginary sacrifice.

	"Qorwyn," she stroked his hair, locking eyes with the doomed elf, "May you find peace in service of the Fairest and Fallen." She held the dagger aloft, prepared to plunge it deep into his golden, well-toned feyflesh. As she began to bring her arms down, she stopped, interrupted by a distinct chiptune ringing sound resonating from her paper bag.

	Rose groaned, standing up and walking over to the stump, flipping open a small pink cell phone. She read a short, barely coherent text message from her mother: She was taking her out to dinner at Serendipity 3 in Manhattan, and wanted Rose to come home right away so they could make it to their airport in a timely manner. She heaved a heavy sigh, but knew that prolonging her absence would only bring her mother to search the area herself. Wanting to avoid a humiliating encounter, Rose quickly gathered her belongings and stripped of her noble magical garments. She quickly swept the area, ensuring that nothing was left behind before jogging down the path leading back to her home. Maybe she would order the Golden Opulence Sundae again. That would really burn that vile witch, wouldn't it.

	As the fallen archmage departed the scene, a small camera concealed in a nearby tree adjusted its aperture, making due for the sudden change in light levels. It would be there, waiting for Rosendawn's next series of escapades, as it had been for many months since, and would be for several to come.