Short Stories
 | Regar and the Potion The light from the fire was just bright enough to illuminate Regar’s desk. The parchments were rolled up onto each other, the wet ink smearing at the corners. The fire also shone an orange light onto the other fixtures of Regar’s home: the tall bookshelf filled with every magic book under the sun, potions that had been passed down from masters to apprentices for thousands of years, specimens that seemed to move when just out of eyeshot, a rusty kettle atop an old wooden end table, a thick shaggy coat that hung on the wall beside an intricate walking stick, and, finally, a musty cot, taken from an abandoned cabin and covered with moss to add comfort.
by butterflybandage |  | The Neovian Fortune TellerAlthough Rascan knew the way, he always felt lost in the Haunted Woods....
by k3l26 |  | ParanoiaDanner leaned on his desk and rubbed his temples, hoping to coax his blasting headache away. A tiny trail of steam from a piping hot cup of tea wafted slowly toward his head, imparting a most metallic and bitter scent. He did not particularly enjoy tea, let alone this mauled abomination that the castle's potion-master had brewed for him, but it did work for its intended purpose, presumably.
by likelife96 |  | ~The Den of Malediction~Tivlia the Maraquan Blumaroo had always been a tenacious treasure hunter. While growing up in Maraqua, she quickly learned to search for valuable commodities. Many times, she had made astounding sums of Neopoints from the prizes she had found. She hoped that her upcoming hunt would be no exception.
by _brainchild_ |  | They Did Not SpeakArt thou casting thine Spell properly?
by skutterbotched |  | The Colossus Immortality is a strange thing.
by erroro |
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"Regar and the Potion
" by butterflybandage
The light from the fire was just bright enough to illuminate Regar’s desk. The parchments were rolled up onto each other, the wet ink smearing at the corners. The fire also shone an orange light onto the other fixtures of Regar’s home: the tall bookshelf filled with every magic book under the sun, potions that had been passed down from masters to apprentices for thousands of years, specimens that seemed to move when just out of eyeshot, a rusty kettle atop an old wooden end table, a thick shaggy coat that hung on the wall beside an intricate walking stick, and, finally, a musty cot, taken from an abandoned cabin and covered with moss to add comfort. This little cot was where Regar rested, the uncomfortable bed the place he laid his head to collect his thoughts.
Regar was old. He had taught many wizards and wizardesses over the years, and his antiquated teaching methods were becoming less and less sought after. These days, everyone wanted to be a ninja or a pirate or—Fyora forbid—a beauty contestant. Regar didn’t quite understand when the world had changed, but it did—and it was sudden, inexplicable, unforgiving. Time used to morph and bend at Regar’s will, but now it couldn’t quite seem to give him a chance to catch up.
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