The Mage

The Mage

In a tall, dark tower of dull gray, He sits

His frail body bent over a desk, reading

A silken black cat sits silently beside him

His tired, old hand scribbles away in a leather bound book

He is content in his studies of the Occult

His hair is long and white, as is his beard

His fingernails are long and sharp

He has seen many years, and will see many more

He has no cares for others pleasures

The Pub Hoppers drink and smoke their poisons

They whore about with little care of the world around them

They care not for the Secrets of the ancient ways

They care only for their own pleasures and lusts

The Priests pray and preach their truths

They lecture others because they do not know of to live

They care not for the Knowledge of the ancient ways

They care only for their penance and collections

The Aristocrats argue and scheme with their black hearts

They betray one another for rank and gold

They care not for the Power of the ancient ways

They care only for their money and politics

People from walks of life come to him

They bid him to join them

He turns them away coldly

But he dies to live a normal life

He wishes to be able to drink a pint or chant a penance

StormRaven, his familiar, is the only one that knows his hunger

His anger, his pain, and his lust to live as others do

They can both hear the yelling in the street

Quietly the mage goes over a looks down into the dark streets

The Pub Hoppers are back

They yell for him to come out and drink with them

Their yelling intoxicates him and his dark anger grows

His Energies build

A sudden flash in his eyes and a blast of lightning sets the streets silent again

He walks back to his desk and collapses in tears

With every tear does his heart harden more and more

He wipes the tears away angrily

And loses himself in his work once more

For he is a Mage