The room is musty with the stale smell of old books and tobacco, candles and spillt beer. Seemingly upon every flat surface, piles of books or antique artifacts were precariously heaped. The only light in the room comes from a few stubs of candles which hang from the wall by the entry-way and a third candle on the center table of the room. Cobwebs blanket and darken the only window and the droppings underneath indicate a bird might have made the sill its perch.

“Ariadne…” says a weathered voice which seems to come from behind a pile of books at center table. “Yes, she used to live here and do a bit of work for me. A lazy lout she was.” A gnarled hand runs its fingers down one particular pile of books. “Now where is that blasted book?”

The hand settles on one thick book, when streaking from the darkness flies a flash of grey feathered wings and screeching after it a black ball of claws and fur, as well as the entire stack of books which seemed of particular interest. “I had the book and then that worthless cat went and lost it on me again.” Continuing to grumble about his numerous misfortunes he goes on, “Now she used to keep all this stuff of order. Now only the Miza’har could find the book I need in this pile.” Finally losing all sense of patience and sanity, he pushes the entire heap of books, scrolls, and the sole candle onto the cluttered floor. “Damn that girl! There goes my light!”

Mumbling a few words a small ball of golden light appears, and now armed with which he scoops up the candle and slams it down on the table. Another screech and squawk and the two animals dart across the room, followed closely by a hurled ball of light. Within a split second the old man gestured and all three, bird, cat, and ball, vanished.

“Ah, there it is, right where I placed it earlier, on top.” Picking up the book, he moves to a decrepit chair and pulls it up to the table. “Now, Ariadne was quite the girl as a child. You see, her parents had long sense disappeared, and it was up to me to do her right.” Gingerly, he opens the book to the first yellowed page, in the center of which a contrastingly bright and colored picture which showed a young girl grooming a tall black horse. She was considerably thin and willowy to the eye, and her long black hair seemed to match the mane of the percheron that she was grooming. The vivid picture seemed as if it were alive as it silently depicted the scene over the space of a minute.

“Yes, she always had a thing for the animals, always leaving the blasted things here in my laboratory or tethering them to my doorknob. You’d think she didn’t have an ounce of good sense in her, frolicking with the dumb beasts.” Lightly tapping the paper with his worn fingers he seemed to reminisce for a minute.

Turning the page, another picture awakened and drew the eye. This one of a girl barely older than the last, hanging awkwardly from a tree by the tail of her robe, mouth flying in an incomprehensible screaming of curses. “This was actually her first success at flying. Well…it’s a few minutes after her first successful attempt.” Cackling at the memory he goes on, “Something about that small bird’s nest up in the branches.”

Skipping several pages he comes to the picture of a young girl, a few years older than the ones before, sitting at a small table by a window carefully writing something out with a feathered quill pen. “She was a smart one though, she knew her words and her incantations at a very young age. And she was always asking me the most inane questions about magic. When she was thirteen, she asked one of the questions that has been flung about the Academie in debate for well over five centuries. It was something about the philosophical foundation of the use of magic…blast all if I remember what she asked.” He thumbs through a few pages and stops suddenly, “Ah, here it is, the fat cleric was over, he’s a priest for some minor totem or such, and before I even give him the book he wanted she starts arguing with him over where magic comes from. Blast her, she probably knew a tad bit more than the fat cleric ever did about magic.”

Chuckling and than coughing, he reached inside his robe for a flask of what smells like absinthe. Taking a gulp, he wipes his mouth and beard with a sleeve and goes on, “But there was a day when that idiotic faerie came to visit. Talking in who knows what language, the faerie tells her about the Academie and the latest rout or discussions, debates, studies, and…you see I did my best to keep the girl from those crooked vultures. I might as well have tried teaching a goblin to say please than keep her from leaving for the Academie.”

Sealing the flask, he sets it on the table and grimaces. “Now she has it in her foolish young mind to do something with the magic that flows in her blood. Miza’har know what, but she’s a bound, determined, and down right stubbornly stuck on seeing this through.”

Leaning back in the chair it seems for a short time as if he has fallen asleep until he motions with a three fingers, and the pages of the book fly by to settle on one in particular. She was wearing a dark green, sleeveless dress which was edged with silver. Tight black elbow-length gloves adorned her hands and black pearls her ears and neck. Her long black hair framed her token mischievous smile, and her emerald green eyes seemed to follow him as he shifted in his seat. “Yes, this was the day of them all; the day she called me grandfather.”