In the aftermath of the ruthless storm that ravaged the Arimensian landscape, Corindrian fell violently ill for several weeks, for the weathermaster had erred slightly in the casting of his barrier which had repelled the violence of the unusual squall. Surprisingly, Ornookian was actually the one to inform me of Corindrian’s illness, perhaps because I was the only other member of our tower that could do anything to help the ailing mage.

There was not much to be done to help Corindrian’s recovery except for bedrest, simple foods, and herbal teas to prevent vomiting. However, this did not mean I was simply free to do as I pleased. Ornookian took charge in the weeks that Corindrian recovered, and during this time the Council of Arimensian Warlocks was called by their patron, the wealthy elite of the city (and the regent), to confer regarding the conflict and the recent storm in two weeks time. Ornookian and I kept late nights for the days leading up to the conference compiling an incomplete understanding of the spell Cornidrian had used to quell the storm within the city. The weathermaster’s quarters were littered with incomplete scrolls torn in frustration, of rotted and discarded components, and long lists detailing the precise hand motions needed for a spell of the weather barrier’s specificity and power.

On the luckier days, our patron master could weakly answer simple questions, including as to how the weathermaster had predicted the strange storm. In the midst of the plague the previous year, Corindrian had detected a pattern so foul and unnatural that for a year he determined to work a spell to repel the storm, lest if come to Arimens. He had spoken of his premonitions to no one, for if the other wizards of Arimens had known he could not cast other spells during that year the patronage he typically received would have been reduced and his status among the council lessened, especially if the path the storm took ended up avoiding the city.

As I had said, rumors that the storm was Daristian’s punishment were rampant throughout Arimens. Our job, for Corindrian was our patron, was to be his representatives at the meeting of the Council of Arimensian Warlocks and to explain what he understood of the nature of the storm, probably artifice in origin. But what wizard could cast such a spell? No mage knew of weather magicks more thoroughly than our master, yet this is what Corindrian’s findings had suggested. The day of the proceedings, Ornookian made clear my role and his, for he was more experienced in the politics of spellcraft.

“We are to attend only to serve the ends of Cornindrian,” Onookian, serious and low spoke as we walked the cobbled streets of Arimens to Ursotrian’s great temple where the council was to confer, “our service to him is much like saint to patron. To protect his mission and secrets will be our duty. To this end, it will do you well to, for once, keep your mouth shut and your questions at bay. Hand me papers and inks when I ask for them, but elsewise do not overstep your rank. Selected me, our master has, to represent him. Do not give the other members of the order, nor the regent, reason to believe our master lacks the ability to teach or serve this city. Yularelian and his students are particularly wily and resort to tactics of guile and trickery. Be wary of the words they say.”

I bit my tongue at Ornookian’s words, for he had been quite cordial to me during the past weeks. I felt, almost, as a friendship was beginning to form and that maybe my time under Corindrian’s tutelage might be less lonely. Alas, my hopes were squandered and I hid my disappointment behind a stony face as we slowly walked into the stone halls of Urostrian’s temple. My temper this time did not betray me, thankfully, for I aimed to not disappoint my master; especially in the presence of Yularelian (whom you might remember is a scoundrel and a cur) or his progeny.

As we passed through throngs of guards, we found the main chamber of the sixth saint’s temple was completely barren of any furniture. Rather, the six remaining mages, the regent of Arimens Lord Parmentian, and several others stood near the center of the ornate stone room. We were the last to arrive, and with that arrival began the posturing of the mages of the council. For each time they met, the mages presented spells to impress the present nobility in both their creativity, but in their efficiency. The assumption of those not educated in magickal matters was that each spell was improvised. But, to the educated eye, these were deeply subtle, difficult, and calculated spells, embroiled deep in the politics of the city and its order.

Yularelian, fittingly, was the first to present. The master of vines was announced to those in attendance, flanked by his two apprentices. As he presented himself to the council, he outstretched his arms slowly, and in three precise words in the old language a great tree of many limbs frose from the center of Urostian’s temple. The branches of the tree spun and intertwined, shaping into chairs and a large circular table with enough room for the regent, several paladins, and the seven mages with their apprentices to sit, other seats orbiting the new sitting place. Gently and deeply the vinemaster bowed, for he knew he had given an impressive display.

The five other mages presented their gifts as well. Zuryne, the master of images, conjured a small sun high upon the slate and quartz dome of Urostrian’s temple. Caronian, the master of beasts, summoned many ethereal hares, which set the table with fine clays and cloths for dining (almost as fine as those found in the Granite Court). Kalityne, the master of metals, set a block of silver upon the table, which then sparked and flailed as a serpent might until it formed many cups and utensils for which to eat our meal. Junan, however, offered nothing, for he was done with the games of petty and childish mages. He had brought a bottle of wine, and fine velum for all of the mages and their apprentices to take notes upon. Hazlyne, the master of life, caused thick foliage to sprout along the tables and chairs, and quickly the green began to bear fruit of all sorts. A long yellow fruit (which I have never again seen), strawberries redder than rubies, and grapes of deep purples and greens that tasted almost chilled.

Finally, it was Ornookian’s turn to present a gift before the council. I had not realized this was a tradition among the mages, and he had mentioned nothing of it prior. Briefly, I worried that he might not have anything to present, and that we would disgrace Corindrian before the other warlocks. Quickly it became apparent that I was wrong, and it was of great advantage to Ornookian that the temple had massive windows on top. Ornookian whispered one word, and pointed directly to the large symbol of Urostian that was upon the back well. Immediately the falling of rain, which could be heard upon the thin-cut stone windows, ceased and the sun gentle layed itself in golds and whites and reds to illumine the glory of the sixth saint.

Praises were thrown upon all of the presented gifts. Yalurelian's words, on the surface, were that of praise for Ornookian's performance. But to those who understand the game of the mages, his speakings we're calculated jabs, aimed to nullify what good impressions Ornookian had made.

"Ornookian," Yularelian said, "a beautiful and eloquent gift you have bestowed to the council and his majesty. The subtlety, grace, and power of your castings, far outshining many previous gifts, makes one wonder what Corindrian would have brought forward. It is such a shame that we cannot witness that arch mage of weather's intended gift, no doubt of masterful craft if your casting is to be any indication of his skill.”

With that small speech, the room was split on Ornookian’s attendance. For those who trusted Yularelian were keenly aware of Corindrian's absence, and the regent had even stirred in his chair upon the master of vines's remark. Now that his posturing was complete, Yalurelian gave authority to Lord Parmentian, who began the proceedings of the council in earnest.

Conference began about distant things. Lord Parmentian, who had long kept Arimens out of the dreaded war of greed and power, showed a new face as discussion ran its course: that of insistence. More soldiers were needed to repel the encroaching forces of Junumianis, several weeks ago they had pushed over the Moringian border, and would no doubt be at Dew’s Flat come autumn, unless the course of the war changed. Yularelian and those who had sided with him were against further intervention, unless the war broached the encampment on the river Kalipaonin. There was palpable fear in the room that, if the war were to go longer, that Harinia might turn its allegiances to Junumianis, or crumble entirely under brutal attack. Zuryne and his apprentices were selected to cross the thundered plains and the peaks of perpetual winter to ensure that the vassals of Harinia were loyal to their elected crown, and that elected crown stay loyal to Arimens and the whole of Moringia, through means of magical favors provided by the Arimensian Councill of Warlocks. Ornookian seemed troubled by this, but for what reason I did not then understand.

The topic then turned to Corindrian, and the matter of the bizarre storm which breathed fire and crashed against the arch mage’s masterful barrier. Yularelian, once more, was on the offensive regarding my master’s absence, calling into question is ability to serve the needs of the city, sowing seeds of doubt and fate into the regent’s mind.

“Ornookian, you have come here today for Corindrian is sick, yes? By what means was he sick? Certainly not of magical illness, we would hope?”

The foul mage took a pause, and then looking directly at me uttered words of disrespect, as it seems my reputation had found its way to the master of vines.

“If he does not have proper care, I would be more than happy to recommend a knowledgeable apothecarist.”

Ornookian, calm and equally calculating (for he had been to many meetings), turned the favor of the room around on Yularelian with his response.

“I believe you too, would bear such illness if you were to craft a spell of such a magnitude as to prevent the destruction of the city. As for an apothecary, I assure you that we have the best one in the city within our employ. You have heard the tale of Colonel Haryne’s daughter, yes? A strong illness of blindness and deafness was abated by an apothecarist you would not deign to think had skill. Even the blind know the look of a good apothecarist when one is in the room, and my fellow apprentice Nayinian is indeed the most potent one this city has to offer. It seems you are unfamiliar, or perhaps did not notice her, which would make sense for what I know of your preference for students. In either case, I am happy that you are now acquainted and more knowledgeable of my master’s care, which is impeccable. He is recovering swiftly.”

The regent stirred once more, and looking at some of the other mage’s and their apprentices I could even see the smirks they wore at Ornookian’s retort. It was at this moment I also saw that Ynguinian was in the room, standing next to a paladin of Mentillian, whose patron is Order, in formal regalia. My dearest friend was also smiling, and I could not help but to gain confidence from his presence.

The regent, appreciative of the retort but not wanting the room to devolve into the tiring verbal jousting of wizards, interjected before allowing Ornookian to return to the matter of the most recent storm.

“Before apprentice Ornookian proceeds regarding the matters of weather magicks, I seek to make certain things clear of this council. Corindrian’s absence, while regrettable, is not what is being discussed forthwith, nor are the qualifications of apothecaries. Your relations to me, much like saints to their patrons, and my will in this room be as demanding as their decrees if not more. Let me give all of you a gift, as you have given me: Ornookian is to be treated as an expert on their matter, for no other mage besides Corindrian surpasses his mastery of the sky and the winds, even if he is still an apprentice. This much has been made clear to me by the gift he presented earlier. To make absolute my will: him and him alone I wish to speak upon the matters of strange weathers of fire and ice and salt. Master Ornookian, please continue.”

The next hour, Ornookian (with my aid) presented what we knew of Corindrian’s spell construction, and the nature of the storm it was designed to repel. Liberties were taken with the timeline of spellcraft, over the course of several weeks is what Ornookian told the mages. To tell the truth, however, is that the spell was probably of a longer craft than Corindrian admitted to us. Years in length of construction, even. Regarding the storm’s origin we neglected to mention Corindrian’s concerns that it was artifice in nature, but did say that we believed it was not Daristian’s doing, for Nature’s saint rarely holds grudges. The mages of the council had their opinions on these matters, no doubt could be had there, but Ornookian accomplished what we had set out to do: show Corindrian’s loyalty and utmost service to the Arimens and get the regent to believe it utterly. Ornookian had accomplished something for himself in that room as well: status. Perhaps, he hoped, he might have some control over his own destiny. But, alas, his fate was not his. Yularelian had begun to sow fatal schemes for all of his rivals, and that included Corindrian and his students.