“Y-you’re crushing my wings,” Ylphar Heletharn managed, held in headlock between the bandit’s cables for arms. The Ceratan assailant tightened his grip in response, snapping a few feather pens. “Be glad of it,” he grunted. “Could’ve been your head.”

Ylphar was glad it was not his skull cracking, but he was uncomfortable enough to wish his captor and his band of bandits to be done scouring the wagons all the same. The caravan he travelled with, ran by Rashari merchants, was ambushed some miles into the wastelands of Gartagon by a group of four Ceratan outlaws. Ylphar and the travelling salesmen did not even try to make a stand against the towering brutes.

From between his captor’s wiry arms, Ylphar watched his companions getting tied up and the three wagons emptied. The robbers carefully selected only the most valuable silks and spices, golden tokens, necklaces and bracelets, jade and onyx avatars, incense and their burners, dream tea and cure-alls. After the three thieves were done transferring the goods (amongst which was a mingou plush with emeralds for eyes, Ylphar’s favourite), they turned to their victims.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” said the tallest of them, whom Ylphar took to be the leader of the gang. He gave a nod towards the six Rashari merchants tied together. “Empty their pockets.”

The two goons spared not a moment to dig up the merchants’ money pouches. Jewellery was pulled from their necks with a single firm jerk.

“It is unwise to travel these lands unprotected,” the bandit leader preached while he weighed the purses in his hand. “Taran-Ceroth is a hostile land, with smothering sandstorms, active volcanoes and raiders behind every rock.” After a few moments of silence, mister Blacksail, the caravan leader and Ylphar’s employer replied: “Thank you for the warning.” It seemed the most appropriate answer.

“What about the Irin mage?” one of the goons asked and pointed at Ylphar.

“He could’ve them enchantment stones or fire sticks. They’d fetch a pretty price,” added the other. Ylphar’s captor grunted. He reached down and grabbed the Irin’s shabby satchel from the ground, then threw it towards his mates.

“This was all he had. What’s in it?” The two bandits kneeled down and upended the sack. Before their feet spread a motley collection of bits and bobs.

There were small bottles of ink in various colours, sheets of parchment of a dozen different tints and textures and a bunch of quills, each different in size and origin. The robbers raised a brow.

“A scribe?” one said, disappointed.

“Useless. Isn’t there anything else?” They rummaged through the satchel’s contents again while Ylphar and the merchants looked on in silence.

There was a pouch that contained dried herbs and spices. In a leather casing sat flasks with snake’s blood, wine and tree resin. Then there were small gemstones and a mortar and pestle. Nothing really seemed to meet with their approval. Compared to the priceless wares from the bellies of the wagons, Ylphar’s tools of trade were rather underwhelming.

“Let me see. Get away from there.” The bandit leader swept a cloven-hoofed foot through the pile of assorted odds and ends. All of the colourful parchments were blank, but one. He knelt to pick it up.

“What’s this?” he barked in Ylphar’s direction.

“A parchment, sir.”

“Answer me if you don’t want those wings clipped. What’s on it?”

Clearly, the man could not read. Although in very elegant, flowy letters, the content was written in the Common Language. Ylphar was rather proud of it. It was written with liquid amber with ground stardust mixed in. The feather he had used had been the red and yellow one, a phoenix feather. The sigils drawn in the corners were done with a pointed birch branch dipped in the venom of a Winged Stinger. It emanated a soft glow around the edges.

“It’s a spell scroll, sir,” Ylphar said truthfully. “I write those, aside from letters and poems.” The Ceratan screwed up his nose in contempt. He flipped the page in his hand and back.

“Looks shiny enough,” he decided as he turned the parchment in the suns’ light. The stardust glittered like so many little stars. “I’ll take this.” He briskly stuffed the scroll into the pocket of his Rangaur leather jacket. He signalled a hand to his henchmen. “Get the bags. We’re leaving.” Ylphar’s captor gave him one last bash on the head before he let go and joined the band. The Irin scribe sat rubbing the sore as he watched the bandits set off across the barren plains of Gartagon. The caravan was quiet for a few moments as they all watched the robbers march off with their wares.

“I think this is far enough,” mister Blacksail said to Ylphar. Ylphar nodded.

"Cirsei’s breath, the serpent’s flame, obey my will, I call thy name!

Below the smelting heat, above the air so cold, from their feud thus born: a divine lightning bolt!

Exturio Stratis!"

It all happened within mere moments. The band of robbers were just near enough for the caravan owners to see the spell scroll fly free from the leader’s pocket and take to the air. At Ylphar’s Words of Power, it had transformed into a pair of magnificent white wings which flapped until a strong upward current whirled around the group of bewildered Ceratan. From the winged parchment now sprang a shower of glittering dust, coalescing into a large, ominous cloud. Small sparks jumped and darted excitedly around.

Then, a blinding flash.

A white hot serpent snaked down from the sky. It was over before the crack of thunder that followed had reached their ears. Where the four Ceratan bandits had stood, now lay a smouldering heap of dark, motionless shapes. Ylphar got up and walked towards the six Rashari merchants. With a little pulling and plucking, he untied the ropes.

“Shall we?” he asked while he shoved his belongings back into the satchel. The troupe got their Auroxen by the leads and directed the wagons to the smouldering bodies. The air smelled of ozone and burnt flesh. The loot bags lay scattered on the scorched ground.

“You have my thanks, Ylphar,” said captain Blacksail, while he and his men began to put their wares back in their proper places. “It seems the good man was right; it truly is unwise to travel these lands unprotected.” Ylphar smiled.

“This caravan is not unprotected, as long as there is an Aeromancer with a satchel of spell scrolls.”