The Last Philosopher

(Self) mocking and pity

The oldest living sorcerer on Huom jerked awake. The motion tweaked his back, shooting pain down his legs. As sleep was drifting in, like a delightful numbing fog, the Darkness of his nightmares had sucker-punched him with his own guts. The midwinter season was usually his favourite. A time when the lazy sun hardly came up at all, and he could justify napping his days away.

"How is it even worth getting up? If I can't go back to sleep at least once," he muttered, trying to sit up and failing miserably.

Your favourite part of any day is the one where you play at being dead, but sure, the sun's the lazy one, the ancient sorcerer's ambition thought.

"What do you want from me? I'm one the five headmasters!"

But who knows what you could be, if you only applied yourself a bit.

After a few minutes, a series of self-pitying groans brought him rolling out of bed. The head of Dalmicir magick looked a sorry sight as he shuffled to his rocking-chair. Bent over in his purple, ceremonial pyjamas.
Like many nights before, he would spend this one gazing through his penthouse's balcony doors. If nothing else, it gave him ample opportunity to blame the city below for his troubles.

And it's not like it doesn't deserve the blame, his sarcasm thought cheerily.

With dusty windowsills crammed full of books, the apartment's panoramic view was blocked. Partly on purpose, since he had little interest in seeing the other four towers of magick. Also, watching the cold streets inside Pentakl's city-wall, only made him feel more sorry for himself.

We've disliked this austere capital from the moment we saw it, his scorn thought. It's like the first council built it out of nothing but sharp corners for stubbing pinkies on.

His contempt had grown strong over the centuries. Even so, this was their only city, and the centre of power in the sorcerer nation. The place where he was stuck fighting a losing battle with insomnia. It had been months now since he last had the pleasure of playing dead for more than a few minutes, before being woken by the Darkness.
For normal sleeplessness, he would have gotten a potion from the Macbiar school. But that wasn't an option this time. Because with the kind of nightmares he was having, he preferred to sleep as little as possible. Also, asking Noertdel for help was attached to an inappropriate price in smugness.

"It's like he's only happy when condescending to his patients." Lyeasrakardsul mumbled into his tobacco stained beard.

Rubbing his black eyes hard, he tried to remember his dream. But all that came to him was the bed-wetting fear of the Darkness.
Minutes turned to hours while he swayed in his rocking-chair, his sleep deprived stare fixed on the stars. The far off view towards the mountains was one of the few things he liked about the penthouse. Watching the peaks through the door windows, he could almost convince himself he was above it all.

Sitting there in the gloom, he was unaware of stroking his long beard like a security blanket. The rocker was his favourite place to think, while dipping his mind into obscure texts. But he was too tired to read. Even so, dog-eared books surrounded him in tall, precarious stacks.

"I should get the moron to tidy this up," he said, lifting a caterpillar-like eyebrow.

But first, lets mess things up more, his spite thought.

Yet, neither of those thing happened. Instead of calling for his PA, his bloodshot eyes looked for the snow-covered peaks. But it was no use, midwinter night had blanketed Empris. The nation that had only one redeeming feature according to other nations, that it was as far away as possible from any of them. The reason being that sorcerers were held in high disregard throughout the continent.
He could have stayed in bed to do his wallowing, but the round thing was uncomfortable. To his annoyance, the frilly cot, like all provided furniture, only got more useless the higher his rank in magick became.

Of course, you know the reason for the fancy furniture, his vanity coaxed.

"I know! We have to maintain the image of status and power."

Exactly, his inner sorcerer added, it has to look right! Just like this penthouse apartment.

Unofficially, he would've preferred a more age-appropriate room on the bottom floor. Struggling up and down this forty-meter tower was a pain in more than just his joints. Still, he could never convince his pride, that it wasn't worth than the pain. Even his name was a representation of that snobbery.

"Lye-as-rak-ard-sul," he said frowning with each syllable.

"Hmpf!" His cavernous nostrils flared as he huffed at his reflection.

"Why did I choose such a long, stupid name? Seven-hundred years, and I have barely gotten the hang of how it's pronounced!"

You know why, his self-doubt mocked. Like every sorcling discharged from Xefef's mandatory grades, you were allowed to choose your new name. And you went ahead and chose something as pretentious as possible.

"Well, I couldn't go around calling myself Lug any more, could I?" Shame bloomed on his wrinkled cheeks. Because the truth was, he missed that simple Kor name.

Sucking on his yellow teeth with a loud smack, he tried to stop his multi-thoughts from running away with him. If these extra musings would work on being a bit less condescending, then perhaps someday, in the very distant future, he could learn to take his own advice.
But right now there were other things to worry about. He needed to metaphorically poke his big nose into things that weren't his to poke. Hopefully, he could sniff out a way to shift the problems on his plate onto the other schools' plates. A strategy that had always worked for him before.

The Darkness of our nightmares have been a real jolt to our system, a rare moment of self-reflection thought.

On top of this obsidian-stone tower, he had believed himself beyond the reach of things like defecating fear. And the comfort of his three personal items was all he had to keep him going.
In a self-soothing habit, he slapped the sturdy armrest of the solid rocking-chair. It had been his first personal item. A perk of his second promotion to professor. For their first promotion, sorcerers only got more stress.

"It took me centuries to get all three items, and I'm not even sure why we are not allowed to own things."

Stop whining, the window's reflection thought at him, there is work to be done.

Their elitist accent rang in his head, since even his thoughts always sounded like they were talking down to someone.

Updated: 19.07.2024