In flickering candlelight, Hood peels off his right glove. What was once white is now a torn and dirty grey, but it is not the state of the glove that has caused him to remove it, but the state of his hand. It appears that no matter how he ‘heals’ it, there is something there that he just can’t fix. Tossing the glove aside and rolling up his sleeve his eyes flick momentarily to the needle-hole scars along the length of his wrist and his mind briefly recalls that strange satisfaction that accompanied the pain so many years ago, but that was then, a different pain, not the recent pain of broken and dislocated fingers which should, for all intents and purposes, have dissipated by now, but his hand still throbs, and the veins within it seem darkened somewhat, distended and puffy. He traces the network of distended veins up from his hand, noting how they seems to have spread somewhat further towards his elbow than when last he looked. Rubbing his right hand gently with his left, he shakes it, his face twisting in a grimace, before returning his attention to the book that lies open before him, a book - the Book of Portals - that he has been studying with unbending intent for several weeks now, and is coming to the point where he needs study it no more.

As the candle burns low, Hood finally closes the book and leaning back in his chair stares silently through the tower’s window, out across the rain drenched mountain-scape. He breathes slowly, feeling his breath enter and spiral through his lungs, move from his lungs into his blood and calm his mind. Sitting thus and experiencing his breath he sinks deeper and deeper into calm meditation, the soothing sound of rain pattering upon and falling from the slates of the roof above him. In calm abiding, a memory arises…

Hood sits, outside the office of Tarquinius Grumpini, head of the wizarding order of Arkanthor, waiting to be reprimanded for conjuring a flame inside the pants of one of his peers. He leans back in the chair that he is sitting in, swinging his legs, which barely touch the ground, playing over the scenario in his mind, watching in his mind’s eye as the seat of Josman Gallapi’s britches start to smoke at the exact moment that Josman starts dancing with an extremely panicked expression upon his face. Next comes the darkening of the fabric, followed by a guttering of flames that spread quickly to reveal a very red and blistered set of cheeks. Hood smiles to himself, wondering how he might perform the spell more efficiently in the future. Clearly he has no regrets and whatever chastisement or reprimand he is about to receive will do little in dissuading him from performing the exact same action again should circumstances repeat. An older student exits Grumpini’s office and Hood is about to stand when the dark shuffling figure of Madame Mordette appears, and holds him captive in his seat with a single piercing stare. Hood sits back again as Mordette, thin black cane in hand, taps past him and knocks lightly upon Grumpini’s door, slowly opening it to reveal herself.

“Ah, Mordette! Come in, come in. I had a meeting with one of our young acolytes but he can wait, for I believe this is more pressing business. Is he there?” the voice of Grumpini wafts into the corridor.

Mordette turns to look at Hood: “Yes he is sitting here waiting.”

“Ah good, well patience is a virtue. Do come inside. Do you have news?”

Mordette shuffles forward, all the while eyeing Hood, before closing the door slowly, but firmly, behind her.

Hood observes the manner of her movement, suggestive of sly clandestine skullduggery, and cannot help but be intrigued. He leans back firmly in his seat, placing his head against the hallway wall and closes his eyes, concentrating carefully, his full attention on the muffled conversation that emanates from the room behind.

“I believe I do Tarquinius, another stepping stone has fallen into place. I have tracked down all I can regarding the healing power of the Shindewigs and it appears that the myth may very well be a reality. There are passages in Finwelbaum’s Grimoire which I managed to cross reference with Gorkin’s Histories. They both give similar descriptions but each is original to its own, which corroborates somewhat that the lair of the Shindewigs is not just some fantastical tale.”

“Indeed? This is most welcoming news, and congratulations on confirming this Mordette - it is no small achievement”

“It was a pleasure Tarquinius - I forget sometimes the thrill of chasing down secrets.”

“Secretsss?” Grumpini emphasises the plural. “Are there more?”

“Yes, the texts seem to suggest that the lair of the Shindewigs is only realistically accessible via teleportation which means…”

“That we need the magic of Pomegranite - a magic lost for over a thousand years.”

“I assume we speak of the same thing - The Book of Portals?”

“Yes Mordette - The Book of Portals.”

“Another myth Tarquinius? I feel that every step we take forward the goal recedes likewise, and we are but grasping at mist.”

“No, the Book of Portals is a definite reality, but a hidden and obfuscated one that will require much fortitude in manifesting its discovery. But if needs must…patience is all that is required.”

“Patience?”

“Hard work and patience!” the two laugh dryly as if at some private joke that they share.

“Speaking of which, if that concludes our conversation. Is there anything else?”

“No I believe that is all Tarquinius.”

“Then, if you would be so kind as to send him in - he’s been patient long enough…And Mordette?

“Yes”

“Keep this secret, and thank you.”

“My pleasure Tarquinius.”

The door opens and Mordette shuffles out, her cane tapping the hall carpet. She turns to Hood: “Hood, he will see you now,” she says before turning and shuffling away.

“Yes ma’am.” Hood says, slipping from his seat and knocking on the office door

Hood attempts to let the memory drift on by…And so he sits, breathing slowly, listening to the rain, trying to keep his mind calm and at ease. How long he sits like that he cannot tell but eventually he leans forward and, pushing aside both the feeling of tranquility and the Book of Portals, he takes from his robe a cloudy crystalline sphere, the diameter of which being about the width of his wrist, and places the sphere upon the table.

Pomegranite was nothing short of a grandmaster. A revolutionary of the art. Hood marvels to himself. How can he have developed such complexity from such simplicity?

Hood studies the sphere carefully, smiling as he does so, a hint of amusement playing about his eyes. Mordette may have swept in and taken for herself and Grumpini something that they had not earned, but there were so many more secrets that she left behind. Secrets that will cause those that do not know of them infinite frustration.

Hood leans down and pulls from his satchel, located by his feet, the parchment that he took several moons ago from Arkanthor, and smooths it out onto the large oak desk before him. He sees it all in a new light now - he smiles at the pun - it was not the Book of Portals that was the treasure housed in the Library of Aspartemane, no, it was this sphere, the sphere that he realises he needs to study further, the sphere that he realises he must master.

The Book of Portals is a book of revelation. It details a revolutionary new magic, the magical science behind the ability to teleport anywhere, provided one knows the address. Initially this address can be created from portal stones - themselves a topic of mystery, for although they are outlined within the text Hood can find no trace of them anywhere. Hood, however, has already surmised that these stones are most likely merely a crutch for the lay-wizard and has a sneaking suspicion that with deeper study and insight one may construct an address without them, for the operation of the sphere hints at and demonstrates this. It is an irony therefore that this most powerful of magic - of teleportation - seems to be underpinned by that which is considered the simplest parlour trick that a wizard has at their disposal - Chromomancy: the magic of light. Not only that, but the spells of chromomancy require little to no energetic expenditure at all.

Hood looks deeper into the crystal sphere, looks deeper into what he has realised several moons ago is Albo Pomegranite’s address book, an address book that has brought him here, to the Grandmaster’s tower itself.

Winds gust from the approaching storm, draughting through the room and spluttering the candle into darkness. Hood stands, padding over to the window, and takes a deep breath of clear mountain air, before realising how cold he has become. He closes the window, and crossing to the fireplace, with a murmur and a slight flick of the wrist, casts a flame onto the kindling at the base of a pile of split logs that fill the fire grate, watching as the fire spreads and the heat and light radiate into the room. He pulls the chair from the desk over to the fire and sits staring at the flames, watching them dance, feeling the light flicker upon the surface of his eyes. Tonight seems to be one for stillness and calm, but sinking again into a quiet reverie, Hood’s eyes rise to the mantelpiece above the fireplace to gaze on that which will not let him rest. A pale white mask stares back at him. The mask smiles - the mask will always smile. Hood sits in silence, staring. Hood will always sit in silence. His fingers, massaging his temples, attempting to sooth his now chaotic thoughts. He strokes his hands down both sides of his face, breathing out deeply before breathing in again in an attempt to calm himself. Unable to take his gaze from the mask, he realises he has a decision to make.