The Last Philosopher

Inattention on Xefef's agenda

The doors closed with an ominous, heavy noise. Like the jaws of death were closing around him. Once again, he was trapped inside the dome of wasted hours. Xefef called this race-planning. Because even if it was never acknowledged, it was meant to set up the conditions that turn life into a competition. In reality, it meant coming up with useless ideas to force into existence. Without ever asking the ideas if they wanted to exist, or if there was even any point to them in the first place. That way they could pretend to try, fail, and declare it impossible. And all the while sorcerers were kept too busy to ask annoying questions.

Excuses and blame, that's what the morning meetings are really for, his contempt thought.

The curved stone wall of the chamber was windowless, with few candle fixtures. A drowsy experience at the best of times. Hence lately, he couldn't keep up his routine of scrutinising every idea for fault. Instead he kept his blank gaze fixed on the model of Pentakl.

As had been the custom since the first council. Sulenthvorenth, the Xefef headmaster, oversaw the council's agenda. The Dwarf always wore his three personal items. A black miner's helmet, a pair of steel capped boots, and a pickaxe on his back. Family heirlooms that were all too large. They were also impractical, except the lamp on the helmet. That had to make reading in this gloom easier.

"Dalmicir," Sulenthvorenth half-yelled.

Even though he could see who was there, the Xefef head insisted on taking attendance. However, in his sleepy little bubble Lyeasrakardsul was dead to the world.

"Dalmicir!" He smacked the ceremonial gavel against the edge of the table.

Besides being oddly short, even for a Dwarf, Sulenthvorenth was also shockingly bad tempered. Even for his magick school, where anger was the norm. And what enraged him most, was when someone wasn't paying attention to him. Half of his stocky body was covered with black beard, and it was already vibrating with rage.

The old sorcerer had always found the vibrating fuzz-ball humorous. Privately, he had nicknamed him, 'the fabulous man-beard'. Still, his fury was useful. It had served him well on his way to becoming the youngest headmaster in Empris' history, but at the moment it was having no effect.

To stave off disaster, Zhetoniss had stretched out with his symbiotic vine. It acted much as an extra limb. The ivy, attached to his body, was the epitome of Loitar magick. Covertly, it poked the old man's calf under the table.

Startled out of his bubble, Lyeasrakardsul found the other heads staring at him. Groggily, he scanned the worried faces. Noertdel was ready to crawl out of his skin. Beads of sweat ran from one chin to the next through his thin blond beard. By comparison, Zhetoniss seemed at ease and his horizontal eyes were calm. Yet, on the floor his vine was twitching. The Troll, Drik, was the only one unaffected. From his blood-red opal eyes to his granite feet, the Pedran headmaster showed nothing but stony calm.

"Do you hear that?" Since he had no idea what was going on, he changed the subject.

"There's a hum coming from somewhere?" It had annoyed him for years, but this was the first time it was useful.

"DO YOU HAVE," the Dwarf managed to take a breath, "anything to add to the agenda?"

Every word that came pressed through clenched teeth made the green flame in his lamp surge.

We may have gone too far, his inattention thought, all of sudden wide awake.

"Oh! No no, nothing to add, same old story you know, just observing and such. What, have you heard something different?" A response designed to annoy, rather than anger.