Bendelkohf pulled his cloak tighter around his frail, aging frame, the icy North Wind finding every opportunity to stab his arthritic joints. How many days had it been? Four? Five? Ten? He had lost track. He knew only the path; Not from any sign or guidepost, but from a novel navigation spell. Not a cheap incantation, by the way, having cost him four ancient opals, seven quilboar teeth, and a Flame of Umbershire scroll.

“It had better warrant this extravagant spend,” he had mumbled to his only companion, a raven called Sulemon that had joined him on his journey—without an invite, as ravens often do.

The old wizard had been on many journeys—many much more dangerous and foreboding than this—but his age was finally catching up to him and, as any old spellslinger will attest, knees and hips start to give out around year 240. He almost opted out, almost chose to simply stay home in front of his cozy fire, smoking his favorite pipe, and trying to finish (finally) his Grand Book of Common Spells.

But he couldn’t.

He had received a letter of invitation, and everyone knows that it is indeed a rare day when a wizard of any import decides to ignore a letter of invitation. Thus, here he found himself, walking up a rarely-used mountain trail toward a location he was unfamiliar with, in the middle of a cold, windy night, with only the increasing or decreasing light at the end of his trusty staff to guide him.

And he was tired.

Cold, hungry, wet, tired.

He felt, by the strong glow from his staff, that he must be getting close. It had to be just around the—yes, there it is!

Or wait… is it?

The path gave every indication that it was heading toward an end point, but there appeared to be nothing there but the blunt, rocky side of the mountain; As if the path itself disappeared. Had there been a collapse? No, it was too uniform. “Ah,” he mused to Sulemon with a chuckle, “I have perhaps lost a step in my old age. It is but a simple cloaking spell. I will just,” and here he took a foldable wooden table from his knapsack, opened it, and placed his spellbook upon it, “give it a little of the, yes, there it is…”

With a flourish, some magic-sounding Latin words, and a wave of his wand, Bendelkohf watched as small balls of bright energy rose from the ground, swirled about his head, and then slammed into the side of the mountain. With a loud rumble and shake, a door suddenly appeared!

The next step any first-year wizard could do: he simply moved his right eyebrow and the now-visible wooden door flung open.

Bendelkohf entered.

A small, brightly-lit room with a single desk was a stark contrast to the icy darkness, so he didn’t hesitate to enter. It was warm, soft music played from somewhere down a long hallway. He was pretty sure he could smell baked goods (his grumbly stomach concurring). He was about to ahem a greeting when a young woman entered the room.

“Well, hello there. Who do we have here?”

He lowered his hood and leaned his staff against the wall. “I am Bendelkohf the Beige, Associate Wizard of the Grindle School, Runeclan University. I have been summoned to this location by post, and I am here to offer my services.” With that, he handed over the correspondence that had led to this meeting, high up in the Argonelle mountains, that dark, wind-revished eve.

She looked at it. “Oh, excellent. Looks like you’ve been selected to stay the weekend with us. If you’ll bring your things, I’d love to show you to your accommodations. We’re so glad you’ve decided to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Have you ever looked into owning a Time-Share before?”

Bendelkohf didn’t wait for the sound of the old wooden door to slam shut behind him before he had already scurried halfway back down the mountain. His companion alit upon a branch to his left and let out a mocking “caw.”

“Not a word, you!”