Wegland felt his age. He was silently contemplating his circumstances during one of his rare lucid moments. The fact that he was an introverted loner by nature and trade had allowed this insipid disease of his mind to encroach unnoticed. Being sick was something he would have been able to handle, and probably cure. This creeping loss of memory and sanity was not something he was prepared for at all. It started years ago, and he had prepared by offloading official duties to others and requesting a retirement post. So now he was losing his mind while tending to a position normal mages would scorn. He dragged his wrinkled hands across his aged, bearded face and sighed deeply.

The view in front of him was of a distinct geometric and abstract nature. High hexagonal walls spread out below, covering the flat lands with magical restraining cells up to the horizon. He idly observed a group of guards flashing into existence with a bright flash of light. The group marched in rigid formation away from the teleportation platform, returning to their barracks down the road. Wegland didn’t remember ordering the guards to do anything, but that was no surprise. He did notice the blood on one of the armoured soldiers' boot though, the magic coursing through his veins allowing him excellent eyesight even in his advanced age.

His gaze glanced across the shining crystal mounted above the intricately inlaid teleportation matrix, the warm feeling of his own magic radiating from the object soothing his agitated heart. He really should have died on the battlefield, in a glorious bout of magical combat, like so many of his colleagues. No such fortune for one of the Empire’s greatest magical talents. His fate seemed to consist out of rotting away in a forgotten corner as his own mind left him, bit by bit. These lucid moments where the worst, he mused. Knowing that tomorrow - or even an hour from now - he would be back to being blissfully happy in blissful, forgetful ignorance. One thing did strike him as odd though. Despite his sedentary lifestyle, he had managed to keep a trim figure all of his life. Why was he suddenly gaining a belly, he wondered.

“Sir, here are the latest letters,” came the oily voice from behind him.

Wegland nearly smote the little shit on the spot for daring to interrupt him. Turning around, he saw an unknown young man. “Ah yes, the letters. Hand them over.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve also brought today’s crystal, sir.”

Wegland stiffened mid-stride. He had woken with his faculties intact, something that seemed to happen less and less lately. As usual, he had read his encrypted and secured diary to keep up to date with all the things he kept forgetting. Included in the unfamiliar content written in his own handwriting and cypher was a warning about one of the male assistants. “Your name, boy?”

The kid turned pale as snow. “W-Winn Ruddell, sir.”

So it wasn’t this one, the ailing wizard concluded. He had warned himself not to trust Fredic, the new aid sent to him from headquarters. This Winn had seemed like a good and trustworthy lad, he had read. Nodding once, Wegland took the letters and started trickling mana into the empty stone he was handed. The letters contained the standard assortment of useless information, all neatly penned in the Empire standard style and format. It was part false propaganda, part magical innovations and part true propaganda. He skipped all official Empire statements, not even giving the pretty yet empty wording the time of day, and read the magical news. He learned nothing new and got only slightly pissed at the fact that some nitwit had rewritten one of Wegalnd’s own essays and turned it in as their own innovation.

The aged wizard decided not to pay the charlatan any head and handed the papers back to the kid, along with the now full mana crystal. “Of you go then.”

The boy made a hasty retreat. Wegland went back to staring at the horizon some more. He then heard someone singing the birthday song. He ambled down the stairs, curious whose birthday it was. It turned out to be his own. Wegland might be suffering from some form of a disease that caused him to forget. He was smart as a whip on his good days. He understood what was happening here, along with the reason for his growing belly. He learned that the boy that had baked the cake was Winn. It was not the same boy that had handed him the letters. From the cake boy’s eyes, he could read a lot. Wegland realized how dangerous it would be, taking care of his own self while he had the memory of a goldfish. He also managed to place the anxious and plotting look on the face of the kid who had claimed to be Winn while asking for another crystal to be filled. That crystal was not needed, as the mana battery hanging above the teleportation formation was brimming with power still, not in need of a refill. So the wizard ate the cake and excused himself, determined to add a few new observation and conclusion to his diary, warning his future lucid self of the backstabbing machinations going on inside how own tower.

It was thus a rather shame that his lucidity failed him the moment he wanted to start writing. Instead of unravelling the various plots and schemes happening under his nose, Wegland forgot. He instead started bothering the girl, some pretty gal by the name of Camprisse, about the lack of supplies inside his laboratory.