Tiny Story Time: The Mage

Based on actual events.

Zep packed up a few things before her move, just down the lane, and saw to it that she left Ceniza in charge of the guild. This was a big responsibility, but she knew Cen would return the reign of the realm to Zep when the time came.

A dear friend, another mage, all blue and periwinkle in tricks, gave her a fortune card before she left. He flicked it, appearing one second and conjuring out of magical air the next, tossing it near her bags. He never missed, but today his aim was slightly off, and it nicked her hand. “Ouch,” she said as she picked it up, reading: “The Truth is in the Trick.” Odd fortune, but that was the way of double-speak silliness and mojo. The mage just laughed, kissed her hand, and vanished, porting away in a blink.

After he left, and was gods-knew-where, she checked the guild bank.

It was nearly emptied out, save for a few robes and maelstrom crystals.

Zep closed the vault door, took a deep breath, and opened it again. Still nothing. Wondering, was he planning a surprise for her? Did he clean it out as a favor? It was getting incredibly messy and unorganized. She was so sure of him, so trusting, that even though her eyes told her that all was gone, she did not, could not accuse him. But the most upsetting of all was the Dark Moon Faire trinkets were kept there, waiting impatiently for the next full moon, just around the corner of hills of bones and brew, and those were all gone. Zep wasn’t sure he knew the value of those items, and if he had vended them, it would be a terrible setback. (Though agreeably they were overvalued.)

What did he do with all those things?

He was a tricky mage, full of one-there-yes and one-minute-no, but never in all the years had any of his surprises or jests hurt her; they were delightful, and made her laugh.

But, what…where…

Maybe...

...there was some fur stuck in the lock.

The timing of his deed, this suspicion, whether a prank or pawn, was either very well played or an unintended coincidence. At this hour, she could only send him a letter, and wait a full day before possibly even seeing him again to find out what had happened. She would have to be patient: she had no control over the time when all of Azeroth slept, swathed in a dragon’s blanket, while possibly the gnomes and goblins tinkered and tampered, cleaned and greased the jiggling cogs and sputtering sprockets, for a new afternoon sun.

Again, growing more anxious, she wondered, "Where could everything be?"

Nothing in the auction house, nothing in the bank, nothing in the mail: almost everything was gone. Spider webs, fabrics, bolts of it, herbs, potions, dust and crystals, gems, and the Dark Moon Faire fair, nothing left but a copy of the Wildhammer Book of Verse: “A collection of the filthiest limericks you’ve ever laid eyes on,” and a robe or two.

But more importantly, where was he?

As soon as the magical hour shone, the veil was lifted, and nothing but a whiff of goblin elbow grease and pit-stains hung in the air, and all the working and machinations of Azeroth were running on smooth rails again, like the perfect schedule of a well-tuned Ironforge tram, could she run back to see if anything had changed.

The bank was full again, just as she had left it. Not a thread, nor a petal out of place. Everything was back, from the graveyard moss to the rhino meat, every last thing.

But it all smelled faintly of fish and rats.

His cat.

His damn cat.

And there was a smell of sulfur, too. She would have to have a chat with Cen.

Theme song (only because it started playing on Pandora when I hit the post button):
Wolfmother/The Joker and the Thief