Inscriptions. Mantras. Runes. Glyphs. Wards. Wyrds. Marks. Words of Power.
SPELLS
The Archivist knew the nuance and use of each. The subtle differences that decided whether a single word or an hour of droning intonation were needed to achieve specific purpose.
Others called him a charlatan, a hedge wizard, a generalist, and scorned him for his refusal to commit to a single school of magical thought. They believed it to be a sign of weakness. They would not grant him access to their libraries. That withheld knowledge tormented him.
Let the fools keep their books of power. He would keep his mind and body intact, forgoing the ritual sacrifice required to become a member of their guilds and colleges and schools. He would write his own!
There was power everywhere, even the pages of the lesser tomes, publicly available in the archives of the city revealed hidden depths, if you looked closely.
His quill flew over blank pages, filling them with knowledge gleaned from his study of all magic... magic unchained... magic unbound.
Inscriptions. Mantras. Runes. Glyphs. Wards. Wyrds. Marks. Words of Power.
SPELLS
The air around him began to glow and crackle. Seething with raw energy as his hands and quill seemed to blur and multiply.
He realized he was recording magics that he had not yet learned. As he wrote on one page, the page opposite was filled as well, spectral quills dancing across the page... he felt an intention then... a desire emanating from them as they formed on the pages...
Inscriptions. Mantras. Runes. Glyphs. Wards. Wyrds. Marks. Words of Power.
SPELLS
They wanted to... BE