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Wasted Spell
by Scott Wilson

Fjordral stands atop a grassy hill, the sun glinting off her golden hair, rippling in the warm breeze. She absent-mindedly rubbed the gem studded hilt of her new broadsword, and glanced over at the dwarf and elf, bickering about how to load the horses. The magic-user, Swinzfat, has memorized her spells, all two of them, and says she’s ready to go. That is if they can agree upon how their packs should go, and they eventually leave the small village of Hamlet.

Rumours of a dangerous dungeon full of treasure from recently deceased old wizard Genkran, in the mountain nearby lured this motley band of inexperienced adventurers together. None of the group has journeyed far from Hamlet before; this would be their first major adventure.

“Ah, ah-choo,” Swinzfat sneezed harshly.

A cloud of wispy, white smoke rose from the spot the elf and dwarf previously stood.

“I thought you’d taken something for that hay fever?” Fjordral said, looking at the tendrils of smoke dissipating from the magic-user’s fingertips.