Magic is not the type of thing you might think it to be. Every spell saps energy from its caster and this is a lesson that is driven home at Arkanthor. If Hood hadn’t beset his room with cantrips: a block spell around the window, a mild tornado in the chimney to blow out soot and cobwebs, and keep the seagulls at bay, a small fireball spell in the hearth to gently warm the cold stonework, then he would have frozen to death within weeks of arrival. Hood is especially proud of the spells he’s cast in the toilet but we shall, for the sake of politeness, gloss over these. Casting these spells everyday would be too time consuming and so they are cast and left in place but in doing so there is a constant price to pay. Every wizard must learn to balance their energies and understand their limits; move beyond them and the cost can be deadly. Don’t believe me? Ask Madeleine…

[a picture of Hood in front of a desk, an arched doorway to onside]

So it is with great care and attention that Hood moves about his room. Meticulously making sure that he has deactivated everything that he has previously set in motion, and with each deactivation, his voice murmuring, his hands slowly dancing before him, he feels a little more energised as the drain from the spells gradually relinquish their hold. It is a time consuming task, for to leave anything undone would be to diminish one’s energies permanently and so, by the time Hood is nearly finished, the sun is beginning to rise for a new day.

Looking about his room Hood seems pleased, but there is still one last spell to deal with. With a faint murmur and a wave of his hands Hood removes an illusion spell that reveals a small alcove in which sits a large leather satchel from which Hood removes a thick leather bound book. Written into the front, in very small, neat, almost perfect handwriting are the words: The Book of Hood.

[a close up of ‘The Book of Hood’]

Placing the book on the small wooden desk by his bed, Hood opens it up to a clean page and taking the parchment that he removed from the archives, carefully folds it and places it so that it is almost grasped by the binding. With careful formality Hood closes and replaces the book, then adds a few more choice items to his satchel. He goes to the now clear and empty window and takes one last gaze out, out across the sea, taking in the familiar smell of the salt air. Pink hues rim the horizon and the first golden beam of sunlight crests the waves, dancing and shimmying to the waves’ movement. It is time to leave.

[A historical timeline of Burydead along with a map of town - of note: The Roast Boar & Nurse Weevil’s Apothecary]