The bent, baggy-eyed figure of a pale, slender Fire Genasi slowly stirs and grudgingly wakes from the night's slumber in a cell somewhere in the bowels of Tarkuul. The cause of this awakening is, as per usual, the trace of black tea in the vague scent of brimstone normally surrounding his kind, as well as the familiar sound of bones rattling about the miniscule chamber. A somewhat notable irregularity in the scene is that it is not a bed, but a hard, wooden chair, that the wizard fell asleep in, a decision made more than evident by the sharp protests of his aching spine. Opening his eyes with a considerable amount of effort, he closes them again lazily, only to open them far more frantically a second time. He rises from the large yet uncomfortable seat hastily.

"Mortimer!" he squeals. "By the Gods, did I fall asleep?"

The seemingly ragtag heap of ancient bones comprising a skeletal figure shuffling around the room shrugs. It lets out a rattling noise in doing so, and again when it points to the burnt-out candle next to an open tome brimming with abyssal inscriptions. The skeleton then offers a goblet of warm tea to its tired master, who grabs it and takes a long sip. Tea, ever helpful for contemplation after a lengthy night of daemonology-induced nightmares, pours through his throat and clears the mind nigh momentarily.

It was early during last night's tempest, the researcher recalls while gulping the warm beverage, that his usual, window-clad chambers high within the spires of the Living City were besieged by howling, ravaging winds and rain. None too fond of the apocalyptic weather, he was forced to find refuge in the dungeon-like libraries beneath the towering complex for the night. He must have fallen asleep in the midst of research down there.

"Well, now, Mortimer," the grim mage exclaims, putting the emptied goblet down, straightening his robes and dusting off his wizardly hat, "let us see if there is anything left of our quarters."

The eerie silence ever present throughout the stairways of Castle Tarkuul is broken by the nearing clatter of the wizard's skeletal companion. The mage himself, on the other hand, leaves little indication of passing, as light and apparently somewhat enchanted boots muffle his solemn footsteps.

Upon overcoming the untold hundreds of stairs which he often cynically considers Tarkuul's prime defensive measure, the robe-clad daemonologist pushes the engraved door to his quarters wide open, and takes a glimpse at the situation beyond. Much to his visible discomfort, the chamber finds itself in a state of utter disarray. Various pieces of parchment are tossed about the room, pages ripped beyond recovery, illustrations moist and unrecognizable. The tasteful furniture is heavily soaked and already showing traces of mould, and the writing desk leans nigh shattered against the cold stone wall.

Shaking his head in disbelief, the mage turns to the skeleton, a surprised glance in his eyes.

"I take it we forgot to shut the windows after all," a slight tremolo in his crackling, gravely voice indicates his unsettlement. "Not that it would've helped, I suppose. Seems it was a bloody deluge out there."

The bony figure responds by cracking its jawbone a couple of times, with no visible vocal effect, and pointing its bony index finger somewhere at the corner of the room. Tilting his hat upwards to get a better look, the daemonologist notices a perfectly preserved, onyx black envelope resting on what is left of the writing desk.

"Blackwater's insignia," the wizard comments. "Figures. Fetch me the knife, Mortimer."

The skeleton appears idle for the shortest moment, then approaches a pile of ransacked junk, shoves its fleshless arm somewhere deep within, and takes out a fashionable, yet slightly battered letter opener. The mage, ever pragmatic, uses this time to pick up what is left of a particularly misfortunate seagull off the chair and out the window. Having brought this none too desirable task to a successful end, he wipes his hand on the ripped curtains, takes a seat and breaks the familiar, ominous seal of the High Arcanist.

Alumnus Flynch,
I want you to start developing a spell that would successfully copy and at the same time
translate a tome into language of caster's choice. It should be a hybrid spell, consisting of
Amanuensis, Comprehend Languages and Tongues. If you are not familiar with these starting
spells find the formulas for such in the library, and start building from there. I shall check on
your progress soon.

The wizard blinks and reflects upon this for several moments.

"Would you look at this, Mortimer," he murmurs. "Blackwater's devotion to his students and colleagues is admirable indeed, especially in this line of work. Imagine how minor an issue this is for a man who only last night drove an eldritch storm of those proportions away, with the very isle shaking from his incantations. Or whatever it was they were doing up there."

The skeleton, radiating a profound lack of interest in the subject, is already rummaging through the soaked blank parchments in one of the drawers. Finally finding a sufficiently usable one, he hands it to the mage, who wipes the surface of the writing desk with his stylish, elongated sleeve and takes out a quill from somewhere within his garments.

Master Blackwater,

Having retreated to the confines of the library within the early hours of the recent storm engulfing the city, I seem to have miscalculated the entirety of its devastating potential. Indeed, my personal collection of scrolls and notes necessary for my field of research is, as of now, ruined and unusable. In lieu of this...

He suddenly stops and rubs his chin slowly, as if thinking something over.

In lieu of this, I must express my desire, with your permission, to travel to the realm of Kalimshan for a certain while, in order to recollect and reconsult some of the rarer tomes I drew my notes from. This would not, of course, hinder me in the fulfillment of the task you assigned me in any way, and we would remain in detailed correspondence until my return. I am honoured to be able to further the interests of the City and conclude the assignment you bestowed upon me, and expect to inform you of my progress by week's end.

Respectfully...

He stops again, this time to glance at the High Arcanist's letter once more. The first name is misspelled, as per usual. Blackwater is renowned for his macabre sense of humour. And, occasionally, for this kind. The wizard sighs and decides to play along, as so many times before.

Respectfully, Absimilliard Flynch

Upon reading his own letter once, the dark mage feels a certain emptiness to it and, after a period of careful consideration, raises the quill again.

Respectfully, Absimilliard Flynch, journeyman connoisseur of the arcane and the extraordinary

Absimilliard Flynch, journeyman connoisseur of the arcane and the extraordinary, nods and allows himself a smile of satisfaction.

"Now, Mortimer, if you'd kindly deliver this, I have bags to pack."