Garlic was viciously panting, clutching the bronze tunic tarnished in sweat squeezed upon him. The weather was sultry; and the boy were only half way up the hillock’s perilous trek to Castle Sapphiyr. Mopping his brow, Garlic espied the palace and groaned. There was a league of path to erase yet, and not a breath of life was near. A long sigh retreated him. Was this all a cruel jest of the Gods? To witness his knees buckle as he ascended the earth? He snatched the waterskin dangling upon the leather belt and inhaled what dregs of water was dwelling within it. His head lulled, something brushing against his shoulder. “You’re slow, boy.” A gravelly voice chided. “Have your legs become so lithe you cannot reach the crest?” Garlic glanced down, and scowled. A Mage slammed a timbre staff into the soil and seamlessly heaved upon the summit, not a break of a sweat upon him. A royal purple cowl billowed behind him with the gentle caress of the wind, his pearlescent and untamed beard dancing in suit. The Mage’s hat was perched like a dove upon their head, inlaid with golden motifs and tales of old Fyroglyn. Garlic gritted his teeth and followed. “Old, withered fool.” He cursed under a breath, maintaining a graceful distance behind the senile individual. Old bastards should remain within their dwelling, not with a Bard and their exploits. “My ears do not deceive me, boy,” The Mage tenderly patted an ear. “I may be old, I may be without the flesh I once was, but I am no fool.” Garlic bowed his head. He wished for the Magician to have lax hearing, then he may curse the other without a concern. “You still haven’t told me your name.” The Wizard smiled knowingly, “Ah. My name.” “Yes,” Retorted the boy. “We have been travelling for months now, and I do not know your name.” (Tbc)