Got a little side-tracked while writing my other story, and started a little writing experiment that grew into this. Might work on it more if there's some interest.

He was a nominated honorary Arcanist of the Council of Mel'Rolem, and one of the foremost eminent Wizards in the entirety of the continent of Faerun, if not the planet of Toril itself. In his fifteen years of adventuring, he had fought adversaries ranging from petty bandits and deceptively cunning trolls to otherworldly invasions from other Planes of Existence. He had ventured to Planes known and unknown, stepping into the lands of the Elements, the homes of demons and devils, and even to distant worlds within the Prime Material when opportunity brought his party there.

He had met kings and lords, devils and demons. He had slain devious beholders, cunning dragons, whimsical Fey, cruel Aberrations and even demigods themselves. He was one of the rare few to have achieved the Twentieth Level in his chosen discipline of Wizardry, even going so far as to push beyond the limits of recorded study. He and his companions were, objectively speaking, virtually renowned in Toril and beyond.

In his remarkably short lifetime of thirty years, he alongside his party had accrued many titles. Wizard, Arcanist, Archmage. Slayers of Kil'rom the White Scourge; Conquerors of the Bleak Spires of Risfold. Saviours of Mel'Rolem; Banishers of the Planar Sphere. To enemies and allies alike, he was known by his many monikers – Winter's Wrath, Spellshatterer, Wardweaver, Burning Blaze and various other silly-sounding alliterations he had since stopped keeping track of. He and his closest friends' accolades could fill (and probably have filled) entire libraries' worth of books and tomes.

He was Dalgan Wintersoul, human Wizard.

He was, coincidentally, currently bored out of his mind.

"… and therefore I must regrettably decline your invitation of a position at the Academy at this time. Signed, Dalgan Wintersoul." He sighed, turning to the construct born of both alchemy and a heavy use of Conjuration and Enchantment magics that had been earnestly dictating his letter. "Does that sound alright, Golem?"

Golem the golem (rather imaginative, he knew) elegantly finished writing the letter with immaculate penmanship despite its bulky and otherwise stiff movements. "You could just tell them the real reason why you've turned down their request for the sixth time, you know."

If animated objects could convey sarcasm – Golem could unfortunately not roll its eyes, since Dalgan never provided it with one – he could tell from Golem's tone of voice alone that it was not amused. See, that was the trouble with creating and enchanting a personal construct to assist him with everyday tasks. They thought they could get away with sarcasm simply because Dalgan was too lazy to deal with said chores himself.

"What, that I have no intention of dealing with entitled brats that think Wizardry is their Mystryl-given right?" He snorted. The present First Arcanist at the Flamehold Academy of Magic had been repeatedly attempting to convince him to take up a faculty position, alongside six other institutions he could think of at the top of his head.

There were probably more, but after the first several missives he allowed Golem to simply incinerate them on arrival. Responding to Arcanist Fellrune's invitation was more an act of courtesy out of respect for someone he'd crossed paths with before.

Seriously; fight off an invasion from the Far Realm just one time, and suddenly everyone wants to be your friend. More likely, they probably just wanted his influence in promoting their institutions, but he had no intention of working with young upstarts who thought they could proceed far in this line of work without putting in effort. That was the territory of Sorcerers, not Wizards.

"Alright, what else?" He stretched lightly. Damned old bones. For the better part of the last six months, he'd spent more time on administrative tasks than actually adventuring or carrying out any magical research. Sometimes, he wondered how he could have been so naïve when he set out all those years ago to desire becoming one of the Archmages of legend. The only enlightenment that position had brought was the understanding of just how much more potent the boredom of dealing with paperwork was than any other spell in existence.

He couldn't even set out on a spontaneous adventure to lands unknown anymore, since his companions had retired from their line of work more than two years ago, when they'd finally dealt with that pesky demigod that had been attempting to destroy all of the Kingdom of Mel'Rolem.

Jotum Braveheart and Kaylie Fleetfoot, Paladin and Cleric of Sarenrae respectively, had joined to serve their deity in faraway Planes some time ago, bidding the rest of their companions goodbye. Others followed suit, starting families or settling down in their estates as lords and rulers. Geralt, Flynt, Ben'thok, Rukaza, Polinos… friends he'd known for all his adventuring life had since laid down their swords, daggers, bows, staves, and all other manner of weaponry.

Some he'd lost contact with, drifting away over the course of their adventuring career. Then there were others who had departed the mortal plane, either passing willingly to the afterlife or trapped in ways beyond any known means of resurrection. He tried not to dwell on the melancholy of their loss too much, but times like these always brought those accursed memories back. Trisha, Damian, Restolan, Xaraxas -

"Requests from Reignhold," Golem's voice cut through his thoughts. These days, the construct was his only companion. Was it narcissism or insanity that he felt a slight sense of gratitude toward his own invention for its presence? "'Oh Great Wintersoul, Ender of Calamity, we humbly request that you –'"

"If it's another letter asking for me to deal with a Kobold infestation, burn it."

Golem scanned ahead – still without eyes – and promptly set the letter aflame. Again, Dalgan sighed. The last time he'd answered a request from Reignhold in person, they'd written to ask for assistance in fending off an Ancient White Dragon, only to find out upon his arrival that they needed help with a bunch of Ice Elementals in a cave somewhere that weren't even bothering the locals. It seemed to be a recurring theme, since other cities did similar things.

"I'm getting too old for this," he mumbled incoherently. Alas, the magical senses he'd gifted Golem allowed it to pick up his words.

"You're thirty."

"Paperwork ages you," he retorted, eyeing the next letter, bearing a heavily embellished royal emblem on a missive that was sealed with stamped wax. Ah, great. Another letter from some noble or another.

"Missive from the Elysian Court," Golem informed him, opening the letter. "Ah… another betrothal proposal. Shall I dispose of it?"

"Please."

Another jet of flame, and its ashes joined the pile that had been building up on the ground. Dalgan cast a mindless Prestidigitation, sending them scattering off into the nothingness of the ether, leaving the floor of his study unblemished once more.

"I really need a vacation." Now that he'd finally dealt with the paperwork for the day, he could finally take a break. Once again, beyond the usual boot-lickers and politicians seeking to use his influence, there weren't any real requests of interest to undertake. He sat down, taking a long swig from the flask on his desk. "Sometimes, I almost envy those snot-nosed fledglings fresh on their adventures."

"If only your enemies could see you now." From the corner of his vision, Dalgan could see Golem shaking its head. "Forget Illithids, Astral Dreadnoughts and Rakshasas; paperwork alone can do what a horde of fiends cannot."

He pointedly ignored Golem, fiddling with one of the rings of power on his desk. At least there was something he could still do today. Traders from the faraway lands of the Toralian Coast were supposed to be setting up a bazaar in town for the week.

He wasn't quite fluent in their language, having had no reason to interact with their people, but the Ring of Languages he'd come across while exploring the catacombs of some ancient lich could help with that. It was enchanted to grant the effects of the Comprehend Languages and Tongues spells, supposedly having been used by a diplomat in times long past. Placing his other ring into the bag of holding by his side, which already held his legendary Robe of the Archmagi and Staff of the Magi alongside other less-notable belongings, he now looked to be a simple, unassuming commoner visiting from a nearby settlement.

Such was the theory, at least. He'd occasionally been recognised even when leaving his tower incognito, under several layers of magical disguises. He'd given up on using Alter Self and Disguise Self every time he left his home, since a half-decent wizard could see easily see through them.

"Alright, Golem. I'm off to the bazaar. Watch the tower until I return. Remember: dispose of any pointless requests if they come through, try not to kill any burglars or assassins until I get back, and –"

It was, of course, at that moment that something broke the sad monotony that his life had become.

A portal had formed in the air just before Dalgan, and he could feel the threads of the Weave that bound all magic unraveling and twisting as it expanded. It wasn't an uncommon sight; he'd seen portals at work more times than he could count.

What was strange was that he couldn't recognise the exit location based on the vibrations of the threads of magic alone. With the gift of True Seeing that had been bolstered by a Permanency spell, painstakingly refreshed each time some rival mage or another dispelled it (much to his constant irritation), he could physically see the tell-tale mixing of chaos and order that marked teleportation magic, forming a gateway between Planes by creating a doorway through the Astral Plane or other more exotic Transitive Planes.

He recognised the spell being cast, of course. He'd used it himself a fair few times in the past.

"Master?" Golem questioned.

"It appears someone is trying to use a Gate," he mused absent-mindedly. The caster had to be a potent mage, seeing as the Ninth Level Conjuration spell was known only to few among the most gifted of magic-users.

It could possibly be a prank by one of his few friends or acquaintances casting the spell from a private demi-plane. It could also be one of his many enemies, in which case he was potentially screwed since he had made it a point to never reveal his true name to anyone, after learning of the power Names held since beginning his studies in magic. Most wizards likewise took on a Mage name of their own as they progressed in their studies. It didn't stop some idiots from thinking that Wintersoul was his real name, of course.

Back on topic: if one of his enemies had gotten hold of his Name, they must have really wanted him dead.

Then, he heard what he presumed was the voice of the caster of the spell.

"…that exists somewhere in this vast universe. My divine, beautiful, wise, and powerful servant..."

He raised an eyebrow. Attempting a gate without a location or a True Name? This caster had to be powerful, indeed. The portal was still growing, but the threads of magic were now rearranging into a more docile form, linking two locations within the Prime Material Plane.

'Divine, beautiful, wise and powerful', though? With the exception of the last one, he'd argue against the rest of the descriptors.

Ignoring the mechanics of how the target for the spell's exit vector was chosen, it was still odd to request for a servant with the Gate spell. Was it hubris born of overconfidence in ones abilities, to think that the spell would bind the summoned creature to their will? In fact, the wording of the spell and the form that the Weave was taking were almost more in line with -

"Heed my call! I wish from the very bottom of my heart and soul! By the Pentagon of the Five Elemental Powers, appear before me, O' Familiar!"

- Find Familiar, a Conjuration spell on the other end of the potency spectrum as Gate.

Something had either gone horribly wrong by some novice wizard, or an Archmage had developed a fusion between the two Conjuration spells. Regardless, it didn't matter to Dalgan at present, since both spells had no consideration for his own desires.

Still, this was novel. Finally. For the first time in a long while, he felt excitement. A journey into a land unknown? Potentially meeting with another Wizard, perhaps learning the matrix of the spell if he was willing to part with it? A magical duel if he turned out to be an enemy?

Whatever the outcomes were, it beat rotting his life away while he stayed inside a tower. Besides, if he were truly threatened, he could simply Teleport back to his tower. Casting a Gate meant that teleportation magic wasn't blocked on the other end, and he was confident of returning in the time that an Antimagic Field or Private Sanctum would take to set up to block his retreat if they turned out to be enemies.

"If I'm not back in ten minutes, assume I'm dead or on vacation."

With that, he touched the portal, and he could audibly hear his construct sigh from behind him as he felt the familiar whirling sensation of traversing through the Astral Plane to his unknown destination.

-o-o-o-

When he appeared on the other side to find the Conjurer who had summoned him, he was greeted only by the sight of a dust cloud that was only just beginning to settle, a sneeze threatening to form as he inhaled in the air.

Ah, curses. Truly a despicable fiend, to use his body's natural aversion to fine dust against himself. Waving that sarcastic thought aside, he thought about his previous conjectures. He doubted one of his foes would be so inept, which left a prank or an accident as possible explanations.

He took a quick look around, True Seeing allowing him to pierce through the obscuring cloud which he assumed came in the spell's aftermath. There were a bunch of children gathered in a courtyard of some sort, bearing identical attire and clutching arcane foci of various forms. Off to one side, a bald, bespectacled person was hurrying toward him, also carrying a staff in his hand.

Ah, great. The uniforms spoke of an institution, and the traces of magic in their wands and staves pointed to them being wizards or sorcerers.

A Magical Academy, then. Was there a novice Wild Mage at work here? If so, he was mildly impressed; even with the unpredictability of Wild Magic, to twist a First Level Spell into achieving the effect of a Ninth Level one was unheard of. In fact –

- oh, by the great Nethys' name, are those a Dragon and a Beholderkin?

The dragon was far smaller than the Ancient ones that his party had dealt with back in the day, but its size was comparable to the younger broodlings of Faerûn. More importantly, it was docile, gently rubbing its snout against a blue-haired student of the arcane. The floating eyeball, for lack of a better description, very vaguely resembled a cheap offshoot of a Beholder or ones of its lesser Observer kin, but he could detect none of the usual magical and antimagical effects of its Gaze that made the aberration creature so feared, especially by those dependent on spellcasting in combat.

And what in the ever-living Feywilds was that? Some sort of unholy cross between a Giant Toad and a Salamander? Could an elemental and a beast even reproduce?

If he had any doubt before, he was now fairly certain that he was no longer in Faerûn, Toril, or any previously-documented world in the many tomes he'd read on the subject even prior to his party's exploration of the Astral Sphere years ago.

Well, guess he wasn't about to engage in a duel for the ages any time soon. Part of him couldn't help but feel disappointed. Still, this was a novel experience for him. If anything, it beat the monotony that his life had turned into for the past several months. Or had it been years? With the way that the days had blended into one another, it was hard to tell.

The dust was dissipating now. The man he assumed was the instructor was drawing closer, and at this distance Dalgan could pick out several more details. He seemed competent, approaching Dalgan as though he was a threat, keeping his staff by his side but ready to cast at any time. He could see the Weave shaping around the man, probably beginning to work at a spell, ready to Speak it into being if Dalgan proved to be a threat. Clearly, he knew combat well.

Closer to him, there was a student now slowly getting off on the ground – pink-haired, short, seemingly younger than the rest of her peers. Beyond that, though, she looked to be otherwise extremely unassuming. The threads of magic were starting to settle around her, possibly indicating that she casted the spell that brought him here. Surprise, shock and relief were clear on her face, a classic Wild Mage reaction if he ever saw one. Interesting.

For a moment, he looked toward the pair of them, briefly glancing at the students behind. The dust was gone now, leaving them staring silently at one another.

A second passed. Two.

Well, this is awkward.

"Hi."

With those words, the floodgates seemed to open. Students in the rear were pointing, laughing and shouting. Seems like he was right to have rejected all those teaching requests, if this was what he had to deal with.

"Hah! She summoned a commoner?"

"Of course Louise the Zero's familiar would be a peasant!"

"A human familiar?!"

"Wait, does that count as a successful spell?"

There were many other voices lost in the chatter, but he learned enough from just those few sentences. He didn't quite recognise the spoken language, but it was fortuitous that he had put on the Ring of Languages for his now-moot plan to check out the bazaar. He wasn't complaining though; so far this seemed like it could be more interesting. It seemed some wizard – the pink-haired girl, probably – had a Find Familiar spell go awry, bringing him here instead of whatever desired beast was on her mind.

Still, though, calling him a commoner? A peasant? He hadn't heard those words used to describe him in a long, long time. Did they not notice his –

Ah, right. His magical artifacts were currently in his bag of holding by his waist, and the ring he wore was designed to appear inconspicuous.

It was, honestly speaking, extremely refreshing. For once, he wasn't being addressed by the many titles that he hadn't even coined for himself.

"Professor Colbert!" the girl was saying. He should pay attention here, although even this was strange territory. He didn't feel bound to her will just yet, unlike a regular Find Familiar. Damned unpredictable Wild Mages. "Can I cast the spell again?"

The Colbert fellow shook his head, waving his staff, although the guarded expression he wore earlier had morphed into curiosity. A little bit of a mistake, since Dalgan could probably still easily take them all out in a spell or two if he so pleased.

"No. The Summoning Ritual is a sacred one that determines the rest of a mage's life. Whether you like it or not, he has been chosen as your familiar." He acknowledged Dalgan's presence with a slight nod. "Now that he has been summoned, you must continue the ritual. Otherwise, I have no choice but to mark this as another failure."

Tough luck for them, to have brought a wizard of his calibre. He was fairly confident he could dispel the binding magic, even if the Wild Mage could overload the potency of her spells. When cast at the Ninth Level, Dispel Magic was a force beyond most wizards' abilities to reckon with. If he wasn't able to break through a spell cast by someone who seemed to be no better than a novice, he really deserved to become a familiar, he thought derisively.

Still, it was probably better to clarify the terms involved here.

"A familiar?" he spoke for the second time, feigning ignorance. The girl was steadfastly refusing to look at him, eyeing a spot just in front of his feet, while the more senior wizard had turned back toward him as soon as he spoke. "What does that mean?"

"Ah, forgive me. I must admit, summoning a human familiar is unusual," he mused, stroking at his chin. "Still, if Brimir himself wills it to be so, then there is no doubt that you have been chosen to be Miss Vallière's closest companion."

That… really didn't answer any of his questions. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but Colbert had already turned back toward this Vallière girl. He'd just have to wait and see, he supposed. Who knew, perhaps there was a chance for some grand revelation that he'd unknowingly been a Celestial, Fey or Fiend for his entire life the same way that all other familiars were?

"You want this peasant to become my familiar?" she asked her teacher incredulously. How rude. Under Colbert's stern glare, she relented, reluctantly steeling herself to complete whatever this binding process entailed.

He scrutinised Vallière carefully, now that she was beginning to approach him. There was a look about her that he came to associate with the many noble brats he had the misfortune of coming across at various functions that his companions had dragged him into, with her haughty expression and the way she still refused to look him in the eye.

Underneath that, though, he saw some clear signs that pointed to her inexperience. There was doubt, and from the reactions of the other students thus far it wasn't too difficult to guess why. Wild Mages always struggled to control the inherent chaotic manner that their voice, body and soul interacted with the Weave, resulting in the unpredictable outcomes of their spells.

It was unfortunate, because with the way that magic worked there was simply no room for doubt.

He wasn't just saying that simply because doubt was the last thing a wizard wanted when already an hour deep into the inscribing and enchantment of an Abjuration ward scheme, but also because even having so much as a shred of uncertainty halted the flow of magic brought by the resonance of one's voice, utterly demolishing any semblance of order in the reverberations of the threads of the Weave. Many Wild Mages didn't progress far without a proper master because of this conundrum, doubt and unpredictability perpetuating their own cycle.

Unfortunately for the girl, though, Dalgan wasn't one of said masters. Hells, he wasn't even a spontaneous caster such as a sorcerer, gifted with an instinctive sense over the ebb and flow of the Weave. He was a Wizard, one that attained mastery of magic through careful study, observation and practice. Sure, he could see how the threads still danced and unravelled around her, calm when compared to a mage in the midst of spellcasting yet nonetheless still in perpetual motion, but he genuinely had no idea why he had been brought here by her spell.

He was, dare he say it, a little excited. Wild Mages brought with them so much excellent material for study. It probably wouldn't be far-fetched to say that most of the recent developments in the field came from observations of –

"S- stop staring at me!"

Hmm? A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts. The girl was standing just in front of him, far closer than before, her cheeks mildly reddened, and he could hear the laughter of the other students in the courtyard now. Was it just his imagination, or had the crowd grown since his last inspection?

Incidentally, how in all the Nine Hells could a Beholder-like floating eyeball laugh so jovially?

She was glaring at him now, standing on her tiptoes while furtively trying to send him a message of some sort, finally making eye-contact. What did she –

"Be thankful for this!" she snapped. "Normally a noble would never do this with a peasant! Now, kneel!"

Oh, right. Was this some kind of old-fashioned ceremonial ritual? He lowered himself into a kneeling position, smiling ever-so-slightly in amusement. Was he supposed to be knighted, like a vassal serving his lord, or perhaps –

She stepped forward, hesitated for only a moment, then leaned in and kissed him.

Well, he could safely say that he wasn't expecting that.

Was there even an entry in his extensive spell-book that required such a bizarre somatic component to be cast, whether done though traditional methods or his personal modifications and tweaks?

It had been quick, chaste. What even was the point of that? As far as spells of magical binding went, they typically involved either prolonged period of casting, such as the Geas spell, in order to interact with the target's very soul through the manipulation of the Weave, or they made use of material components specific to the creature, such as an offering of blood, hair, skin, flesh, or any other bodily substance.

In contrast, the brief contact that her spell used really offered not much in the way of binding. As far as he could tell, his will was still his own, and his magic had otherwise been unaffected. He would know, having been subject to Dominate Monster cast by some of his most deadly foes before in memories he wished would stay buried. He could cast a Mind Blank and a Dispel Magic to be sure, but that seemed like overkill. With how much study he had dedicated to the subject following that incident in the Planar Sphere, magical binding was one of the topics he had a foremost mastery of.

Then again, this was possibly Wild Magic he was dealing with. For all he knew, he could be Polymorphed into a lizard in a week's time.

"Stop staring!" she shouted again. "You… you peasant!"

Ah, there he was spacing out again. He looked at her apologetically, even though it wasn't really her per se that he had been distracted over. He absently brushed dirt off from his breeches as he stood from where he was kneeling – he wasn't about to cast a Prestidigitation while they still thought he was a mere peasant – then laughed sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm kind of new here, and –"

A sudden heat building up on the dorsal surface of his left hand brought that sentence to a premature halt. It wasn't hot, certainly nowhere close to Hellfire Rays he had dealt with many times in the past, but it wasn't comfortable either. Strange runes were glowing on its surface, and even with his vast knowledge of a variety of contemporary and ancient rune schemes and the Ring of Languages that could decipher most runic languages on his finger, their meaning was still lost to him.

Most curious indeed.

"That is the rune of the familiar being branded into you," Colbert explained helpfully, a kind smile on his face. He didn't seem to share the same disdain for commoners that his new 'master' and the other students had. "It may be painful at first, but it should pass over quickly."

Sure enough, the searing heat had given way slightly, the runes dimming in intensity, yet his understanding of their meaning hadn't changed. It was inherently magical, that much was certain, with how the threads of the Weave were flowing into them as though an extension of his material self, yet he couldn't quite discern their function just yet. As far as he could tell, he wasn't at all beholden to his summoner. Curious.

He grinned to himself, thinking over what had happened in just the last five minutes. Summoned by a Gate spell that turned out to be a very badly (or excellently, depending on your point of view) cast Find Familiar? Mistaken as a simple commoner, rather than Winter's Wrath, Spellshatterer, Wardweaver, Permafrost or any other ridiculous title? Kissed by some amateur mage in the most bizarre Find Familiar ritual he had seen to date? Runes that even he, with his vast collection of tomes obtained from Toril and Planes beyond, couldn't begin to comprehend?

He'd take all that over replying to pointless letters any day. He wasn't a devout believer of the deities, despite having met many of their pious servants and even a couple of the demigods themselves, but perhaps they did listen to his prayers after all.

He coughed, schooling his expression as he looked at his new 'master' that hardly held a hold over him in any magical sense. They assumed him to be a peasant, and he wasn't going to dissuade them of that notion, after his personal experiences with titles and accolades.

"'Ello, Lady Vallière! Name's Dalgan Dimwit, but just call me Dalgan! I suppose 'yer my new master now, eh?"

Nailed it.

He savoured the dumbstruck expression on her face, mirrored closely by those of her fellow students still gathered at the spectacle. Moments later, hers morphed into warring despair and rage, while the others began to guffaw loudly at her expense.

"Dimwit?!"

"Of course her Familiar's name is Dimwit!"

"Hah! Louise really summoned a peasant after all! A zero just like his master!"

Louise, was it? She turned toward the one who had spoken, a blonde-haired boy who fit every description of a bratty noble, her cheeks reddening. He watched with interest as she raised her wand into the air, threads of magic dancing chaotically as she prepared some grotesque mockery of formal magic that could scarcely be called a spell, while the boy yelped and dove down into the ground. He wasn't alone; many of his peers reacted similarly as soon as she raised the wand.

Moments later, he could pinpoint the exact moment where the metaphysical threads snapped, followed closely by a loud explosion that sent a cloud of dust into the air once more. Students were flung backward, clothes singed, a miniature crater left in the ground, all while the professor looked on helplessly.

That was… unrefined, to put it mildly.

Despite himself, Dalgan grinned. He could teleport back to the teleportation circle back on his tower in Toril and deal with his paperwork and sarcastic remarks from his personal arcane servant…

…or he could stay, and pretend to be a clueless peasant from some far-off land all while studying the strange magical phenomena he had seen in the five minutes he had spent in this world. It didn't hurt that he could get the chance to mess around with some uppity noble brats.

There were no expectations of him; no dragons, Illithid, liches or Fey to be slain, and the only people that it seemed he would be dealing with were snobbish but naively innocent and strangely endearing teens. Most importantly, he was free to once more be just Dalgan, free of everything else that came with his name. The decision was simple.

He'd been invited many times before to magical institutions. He hadn't expected to be in one, now, in the capacity of a peasant summoned to a foreign land.

Forget the machinations of nobles, rogue fiends, annoying Fey and ignorant assassins that he'd been dealing with. It was time for a vacation.

-o-o-o-

"My great and powerful master!" he greeted Louise cheerfully, once Colbert had dismissed the class after the commotion had blown over. In a rather wasteful display of magic, most of the students had simply used a variant of Fly to leave the courtyard, leaving only him and his new master alone. "I serve at your beck and call! Why, I heard 'yer words in my mind loud and clear! I'm touched that you think I'm divine, beautiful, wise and powerful!"

Passing students snickered at that as they headed away from the courtyard, probably toward another class in this Academy that Colbert had very briefly told him was the Tristain Academy of Magic in the scant few seconds he had before his lesson had ended. Different civilisations tended to understand magic differently, and he was interested in seeing just how this society viewed magic. Were they the so-called Conventionals, working at magic through rigorous and defined theory, or did they adopt more whimsical approaches that were almost like a hybrid between Wizardry and Sorcery?

"Quiet!" Louise snapped. How sociable. "You're a peasant! Speak when spoken to!"

He shrugged off the derogatory remark. As far as insults went, he'd heard far worse. If only she knew who she was talking to, eh?

Still, though, he couldn't just let his new so-called 'master' maintain such a narrow world view. He settled on an expression of confusion, tilting his head to one side. "Aren't I your Familiar, Lady Vallière?"

"There is no way that a stupid peasant like you can be my Familiar," she shot back, not even pausing as she entered the classroom. Once again, as he followed through, curious eyes looked toward him alongside excited murmuring and pointed fingers. Playing the role assumed of him, he waved back excitedly, drawing another round of laughter.

"Come here, you stupid Familiar!" Louise snapped, face flushed, dragging him by the collar.

"I thought I wasn't your Familiar?"

"S – shut up!" She sat down at her seat, looking challengingly at her classmates that were eyeing them with interest. Kudos to her, she had guts in that regard, although it waded dangerously close to the territory of overconfidence. He shrugged, moving to sit beside her, but was interrupted yet again.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, shoving him away. "This is a mage's seat! You're a peasant! Go there!"

She pointed off to the side at the hard wooden steps of the lecture theatre. He should take offense to that, given that calling him a simple mage was a gross understatement, but tangling with powers beyond the scope of most people's imaginations tended to blunt out any affect he might have had to such petty slights. He shrugged, doing as he was bidden, scratching his head. "'pologies, master."

She huffed under her breath. "Commoners," she muttered.

He pointedly ignored the rest of the students, sitting on the steps idly while he eyed his immediate surroundings. While a school established solely for nobles to learn to use magic (despite many having no talent for the arcane) wasn't unheard of, he had come across more than enough contextual clues thus far to suspect that this world, or at least this country of Tristain, had a noble class that was strictly composed of mages. It would certainly explain why the ragged attire he had worn for his initial purpose of inconspicuously blending in with the folk at the bazaar had caused them to belittle him that much.

On the other hand, it also seemed as though these brats respected nothing but sheer magical power. Had they never seen a Rogue or Fighter in action? He was half-convinced that if Ben'Thok so wished, he could put two daggers into his neck before even being able to so much as speak the first syllable of an incantation.

All in all, he got the sense of a very strange societal structure indeed. A magicocracy, perhaps, if all nobles were indeed mages? Were there no similar organisations or institutions for those that relied on more physical means of combat?

Alas, he no longer had time to ponder on that line of thought, because the next class had already begun. A woman walked into the classroom, a middle-aged motherly-looking lady wearing a wide-rimmed and pointy hat. He had seen similar attire worn by many Wizards across different cultures, but he never did fancy the practice himself. It seemed impractical, and it hindered access to an Ioun Stone at times when it was needed.

"Good morning, class!" she greeted cheerfully. "Continuing on from yesterday's lesson, we shall talk more about Earth magic!"

…Earth magic? It could work in theory, but why would it ever be practical to teach a class solely on that? It stretched such a wide range of spells, across a variety of different Schools and complexities, that it didn't seem feasible for any wizard to learn magic through constituent elements alone. Mold Earth was as far apart from Investiture of Stone as an imp was from a Paeliryon.

"As we've discussed, Earth is the element of Transmutation!"

She pointed her wand at a rock, and he watched, fascinated, as it turned into a small piece of brass following a whispered incantation. He could achieve a similar effect with the Ninth Level True Polymorph, but that spell's scope was so much greater and simultaneously much, much more complex, being the pinnacle of Transmutation magic itself. What she did appeared to be a heavily watered-down version of object-to-object Transmutation, but with some heavy limitations in materials of origin and outcome.

Very interesting. He'd traveled through more Planes than most adventurers would in their entire lifetimes, and yet he'd never come across a society that understood magic in this way, along with the spell that was remarkably efficient though limited in power. He could stand to pick up some of it as well, and modify the spell structure for his own designs.

"Transmuting a rock to brass may be beyond your abilities to cast right now, unless you have an affinity to Earth magic, but do not fret! Even as Dot mages, simple Transmutation spells will still be within your reach!" She adopted a lecturing tone, commanding the attention of her class. "When you reach the level of a Line mage or Triangle mage, you can even go as far as manipulating the elemental composition of metals, and the rare Square mages can even turn this ordinary rock into solid gold!"

Dalgan raised his hand.

For an instant, the class fell silent as they registered the act.

Then, the metaphorical Nine Hells broke loose.

"What does that peasant think he's doing?!"

"Zero! Control your Familiar!"

"DIMWIT!"

"Wait, the Zero summoned a familiar?"

"QUIET!" the instructor boomed. Was that Thaumaturgy that amplified her voice? She regarded him with a kind smile. "I'm afraid I don't recognise you, Mister…"

"Name's Dalgan Dimwit, Professor. I've been summoned as Miss Vallière's familiar," he responded in kind. At least some mages had the decency to remain polite. She looked startled at that admission, probably not having heard of Louise's unknowing use of Gate – did that even exist in this world? – but reined in her reaction well. "I'm afraid I don't see what shapes have to do with magic?"

That question wasn't just him playing the role of an ignorant bumpkin. Beyond the many uses of geometry in the construction of spell lattices and working out the physical and metaphysical complexities of inter- and intra-planar travel for both material and immaterial spell components, he didn't see how geometrical shapes could at all be used to describe any arcane spellcaster.

"Ah! How spectacular! A human Familiar?" She inspected him with renewed interest. "I am Professor Chevreuse, the Red Earth. I welcome you to the Tristain Academy of Magic."

"Pfft. Stupid peasant," he heard a student whisper. Dalgan took note of his appearance, committing it to memory. He'd come up with a suitable punishment in time. Perhaps tripping him over with a subtle Mold Earth would do?

"Now, class, you may already know this, but treat this as a refresher on what you have learnt before." Chevreuse looked at the student sternly, then addressed Dalgan once more. "The power of a mage can be classified into different ranks, namely Dot, Line, Triangle, Square, and the legendary Pentagram. The number of vertices of the shape corresponds to the number of elemental constituents that a mage can wield or that comprises a spell."

Um. What? There weren't many wizards around that could perplex him during a discussion of magical theory, but this professor had done just that.

She must have sensed his confusion, because she continued explaining, demonstrating with a spell as she spoke. "For example, changing the shape of a rock would require the use of only a single Earth element in the incantation, while Transmuting it combines two different aspects of Earth, and successfully using it makes someone a Line mage. Tempering and shaping it in the same spell would require an Earth-Earth-Fire combination, and the spell would be classified at Triangle level."

She paused, looking at him expectantly. It would make sense to a random peasant unexposed to the workings of magic who might take her words at face value, but none of that made any sense to him. Virtually all wizards could use spells of any element, starting from the level of Cantrips, even though some wizards had obvious preferences for certain types of spells. He personally still tried to stay far away from fire-based magic as possible, despite having come to terms with his past poor experiences with the element.

Besides, what would something like Prismatic Spray even be classified as? A dodecahedral-level spell? The system sounded absurd, and that was before even going into the specifics of spells that drew power from beyond the Elemental and Quasielemental Planes.

He didn't further question her on that, of course. Following a quick muttered thanks from Dalgan, she nodded, and continued with the lesson.

"Now, would anyone like to volunteer?" She gave a sweep across the class, pausing briefly as her gaze fell across his new master. "Except for Miss Vallière."

Smirks broke out across the room, while her face reddened, although he wasn't sure if it was out of embarrassment or anger. She protested loudly, only drawing more smiles and commentary from her classmates. To her credit, the teacher looked apologetic, but given what he saw of her attempts at magic thus far he privately agreed with her decision.

He could offer some pointers based on his observations under the lens of True Seeing to help with the Vallière girl's control, but from her treatment of him thus far she really hadn't yet earned that favour.

Besides, he didn't want to reveal the true depths of his mastery of magic just yet.

"Haha! Seems like even Professor Chevreuse knows of your reputation now, Louise the Zero!" A red-haired girl said loudly. Of course, her most prominent features were the sizeable pair of assets on her body. Did she have some succubus blood in her ancestry or something? "Or is it Louise the One now, since you've summoned your powerful and most amazing Familiar?"

She quoted Louise's own words with jest, but there wasn't much insult aimed toward him personally. Personally, he was more intrigued by her outfit. How was that meant to be within Academy regulations? More importantly, how was it at all practical in combat? Did she never get the memo that mages were incredibly vulnerable in combat, and that attracting attention was the last thing any wizard with a sense of self-preservation wanted?

"Shut it, Kirche!" Louise shouted back, looking away from her. Unfortunately, that put him right in her line of sight, and her eyes narrowed as she caught him in the midst of studying her poor choice of attire. "And you, Familiar! Stop staring at her!"

"Oh? Could it be that your Familiar prefers my company than yours, little Louise?" She flashed him a teasing smile, one that might have sent tingles down his spine years ago. Alas, dealing with the artificial facades put on by the many nobles he had the misfortune of coming across had since erased that particular deficiency of his.

"Like anyone would want to associate with a Zerbst sl –"

"Ahem!" The instructor cleared her throat, glaring at the pair of them. Despite her kindly demeanour, she certainly knew how to channel an intimidating presence. That seemed to remind Louise and 'Kirche' that they were, in fact, in a classroom, quieting down immediately. She stared them down for a moment longer, before continuing when finally satisfied that they had settled down. "Now then, class! Break into pairs and practice your transmutation spells!"

The class didn't obey her instructions immediately, however. Heads alternatively turned toward Louise and Chevreuse, an unspoken question on their lips.

The teacher sighed, then continued on reluctantly. "Miss Vallière, until you can consistently cast a spell without causing an explosion, I'm afraid I am going to need you to stand by and observe."

"But –"

Her protests were drowned out by the excited cheers and guffaws of her classmates as they separated into pairs, dispersing throughout the large lecture theatre. The instructor looked regretfully at her student, but quickly moved on to roam among the groups excitedly working on the assigned spell.

He couldn't really blame her, he supposed. Wild Mages were a handful to deal with. He wasn't exactly sure whether she truly was a Wild Mage, since this peculiar and yet innovative system of understanding magic and spellwork had thrown him for a loop, but the principle was probably the same. True Seeing would be of benefit to her, allowing the visualisation of how magic coursed and flowed with each word that was spoken, but...

"Familiar!" Louise called out angrily, walking over to him.

…yeah. He wasn't about to waste twenty-five gold pieces worth of reagents on someone like her just yet.

Yes, it was a paltry sum to him now, but that amount was probably more than what someone at her stage of study into the arcane could earn in a month. She seemed to be spoilt enough as things were.

"Dimwit!" She stepped closer to him, coming to rest two full heads shorter than himself. "Are you deaf? Listen when your master –"

"Dalgan," he interrupted. He held his hand out toward her, hiding back a smile as he did so. Knowing nobles, she'd hopefully be irritated by his interruption. "Call me Dalgan, Lady Vallière!"

He watched with hidden amusement as she faltered for a moment, then warred internally between indignation at being cut off mid-sentence, and satisfaction at being addressed as a noble. She settled for what looked like mild annoyance. "Peasant –"

"Dalgan," he supplied helpfully.

"Dalgan," she forced between gritted teeth. She straightened herself, adopting as regal a posture as she could. Considering their height difference, he doubted it achieved her desired outcome. "As your master, I am ordering you to perform your first task."

Oh? This should be interesting.

"Proceed to my quarters. When I return, I expect for my clothes to be washed and neatly folded upon my arrival."

He waited for more to come, but she simply stood there, glaring fiercely at him. Seriously? No instructions as to where exactly her room was?

More importantly, she had brought him to this world, calling upon someone that Mystryl herself took to be 'divine' and 'powerful', as her summons had denoted, to do her laundry?

He was tempted to Polymorph her into a toad for an hour, but he really didn't want to show off his mastery of magic and return to the state of affairs that the past years of his life had been. Instead, he shrugged. Prior to discovering the gift of the arcane, he'd done a variety of odd jobs growing up.

"Where are your quarters, Lady Vallière?"

"Ask the servants, they will know," she said offhandedly, no longer even looking at him as she glanced over at her peers in the midst of some variant of Transmutation magic. They weren't at all close to the same level; some of them had masterful spellwork while many more had matrices so flimsy it was a wonder they hadn't immediately collapsed.

She made a shooing gesture, and he knew dismissal when he saw it. As he made his way out of the classroom, with a final goodbye to Chevreuse (who, unlike the brats, actually acknowledged his presence), he wondered just how his esteemed colleagues would react if they knew he was willingly subjecting himself to this sort of treatment from the noble brat.

-o-o-o-

Finding the servant's quarters was a trivial task. Once he had ensured that he was out of sight of the many mages wandering the academy, all it had taken was a quick Locate Creature to point him in the direction of the closest servant. As it turned out, the servants were housed in an entirely separate building, some distance away from the main complex itself.

The sun was only just now beginning to set. Thankfully, it seemed that there wasn't too much of a difference in both the length of a day and the time of day that it had been in his tower and in Tristain. Acclimatising to portal-lag was something he greatly loathed.

The building was a frenzy of activity, people rushing by with tall stacks of plates and foodstuff, probably in preparation for the coming dinner. A few looked toward him curiously, but paid him no further mind as they hurried off to their tasks. Dalgan didn't interrupt them in their duties; from what he'd seen so far he doubted that the students treated them with any modicum of respect. He could afford to wait, anyway, since laundry was more than trivial with Prestidigitation at hand.

Following the trail of activity, he found his way to a large kitchen, and was greeted by a familiar sight of the Academy's staff hard at work as they prepared for the upcoming meal.

"Samuel! How much longer till the soup is ready?" One man in particular exuded a commanding presence, glancing over to one of his fellow chefs hurriedly adding ingredients into a large metal pot. He looked to be older than his peers, taking charge of the operation of the kitchen. He took only a moment to register his subordinate's hurried reply, before turning his attention to another harried-looking chef.

Not bad. Dalgan had often ventured into the less opulent corners of various castles and mansions to avoid dealing with nobles, and this man seemed to be on par with several of the head chefs he'd met before. Some of his companions had an entire troupe of staff in their own estates, but with how he could simply conjure a dwelling of his own, complete with more magical servants than he could possibly make full use of, his own wizard tower had no need for other inhabitants beyond Golem and himself.

He continued watching them for awhile longer, before at last the head chef took notice of his presence. He raised an eyebrow, putting down a giant wooden ladle when at last his tasks had been delegated, walking over toward Dalgan. As he did so, he began addressing the disguised wizard with a booming voice. "And who might you be, kid?"

Kid? Sure, he was younger than the man and far beyond the abilities of most other age-matched wizards, but surely the age difference between them wasn't so great?

"Dalgan Dimwit," he half-lied. Now that he thought about it, perhaps he'd chosen his fake last name rather poorly following his arrival. "I was summoned to the Academy as Lady Vallière's Familiar."

"Oh!" His eyes sparked with interest, looking at Dalgan from head to toe. "I heard about that! The little lady managed to cast a spell after all, eh?" He chuckled lightly. "I'm Marteau, head chef in this here Academy. Whereabouts are you from, Dalgan?"

"I travelled around, but more recently I've settled near Mel'Rolem," he said truthfully. No sense lying about that, since he knew nothing about the local geography. "It's quite some ways away from Tristain."

If by 'some ways', he meant a quarter of the Astral Sea away. While the other cooks and servants were hard at work at their own tasks, it was clear that they were being drawn into the conversation, looking away distractedly from their work. Marteau, to his credit, was only mildly fazed. "Can't say I've heard of that place myself." He shook his head. "No matter! How have you been finding the Academy?"

Dalgan shrugged. "Only been here for just more than an hour, but from what I've seen the brats can be a bit of a handful."

"Nobles," the chef scoffed, then reached forward to place a palm on Dalgan's shoulder. He tensed, only slowly releasing the Cone of Cold he had been preparing at the sudden movement that more than likely would have frozen him solid when it was clear that he meant no harm. Invisible to the untrained eye, the threads of the Weave returned to its disorderly state. "Let me know if any of them give you any trouble. We commoners have to stick together, yes?"

How kind of him. "Many thanks," he said, smiling slightly in return. "Actually, I was wondering if you would know where Lady Vallière's room is located? She didn't leave directions with the rest of her orders."

"'Orders'?" Marteau frowned, aghast. "Is the little lady treating you as her servant? I'm no mage, but from what I know about Familiars -"

"It's quite alright, Marteau." Dalgan nodded reassuringly at him. "She just wants her laundry done."

"Too important to do her own chores, is she?" He snorted derisively. "We can take care of it, Dalgan, you don't need to bother with –"

"It's fine," he interrupted firmly. They seemed to have their hands full enough as things were presently. "Just point me in the right direction."

"Well…" Marteau spoke uncertainly, but must have recognised that Dalgan wasn't about to yield on the matter. "The nobles are housed in the Mage's Quarters, but since Duke de la Vallière holds a position of power, she would be on one of the higher floors…"

He trailed off mid-speech, turning around to look at his colleagues. They weren't even pretending to focus on their tasks anymore, eavesdropping in on their conversation. Marteau gave a cursory glance over them, pausing as he spotted one in particular. "Siesta! Are you free currently?"

A girl that looked to be no older than the students themselves looked momentarily startled, giving a surprised 'eep' from where she had been listening in on the side-lines. She wore the attire of maids he had seen in the estates of lords and ladies of Toril, Golarion and Exandria, and now in this world he had been accidentally summoned to. Some things, it seemed, were common in all the Planes.

"Y- yes, Marteau!" she responded quickly. "I won't have any more tasks until dinner is to be served, so –"

"Calm down, child," Marteau said mirthfully. "We need to prepare for dinner, but would you be willing to show Dalgan here to the Louise girl's room?"

He noted how the man had deliberately avoided calling her his master. Dalgan got the feeling that he wasn't the fondest of aristocrats. At the same time, he was clearly protective of Dalgan, likely because to everyone else he was but a defenceless commoner suddenly thrust into the world of magical nobility and their ways.

"Of course!" she hurriedly affirmed, wiping her hands on a nearby piece of cloth and straightening out her long dress before walking over to the wizard. It was clear that she was curious about him and his origins, but didn't immediately begin to pry.

Good girl. The students could stand to learn a little from her.

"Many thanks," he said to Marteau. He nodded, then turned and began barking out orders to the many cooks that had paused in their work since his arrival. Hopefully he hadn't delayed things too much. "Siesta, was it?"

"Yes!" she affirmed, falling in step beside him as they exited the kitchen. "I heard that Miss Vallière had summoned a human Familiar, but I didn't think that the rumours were true! She's a good girl, usually never bothering us servants too much, but the other students always said that she couldn't cast any spells, so –"

She paused mid-sentence, looking at him like a fawn caught in the face of a Dancing Lights spell, as though she had offended him by running her mouth behind his master's back. Whether it was because of the difference in caste he had inferred in his time here thus far, or just her naturally being an anxious one, Dalgan didn't know.

"She can't cast spells?"

"Well…" Siesta looked around nervously as they walked, only continuing when she was certain that no one else was listening in. "They call her Louise the Zero, you know? Every time she tries something, it makes an explosion that we need to clean up." She sighed, then remembered just who the peasant beside her was. "O- of course, we're only too happy to help! It is our duty to –"

"Don't worry," he told her. "My lips are sealed."

"Thank you," she said, heaving a sigh of relief. "Most nobles don't really treat us common folk nicely, so…"

Her voice trailed off, as she gestured helplessly, unable to convey what she wanted to express. He got the gist of it, though. The obnoxious arrogance of nobility wasn't something entirely foreign to him. They continued walking in silence for some time as she led him toward one of the towers near the centre of the Academy, before it was finally broken by Siesta.

"You said you're from Mel'Rolem?" she asked curiously when they'd reached the students' quarters, struggling to pronounce the name of the foreign-sounding city as they walked toward the staircase. "Is that far away?"

"Something like that," he deflected. Just a hop, skip and a jump away across the Astral Sea. "I don't know much about Tristain, but it seems to be very different from what I've seen. Magic isn't exclusive to nobility, and in fact several of those from my village were mages."

"Really?" she asked, incredulous. "Anyone could learn magic?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed in affirmation. "Of course, not everyone progresses far in their studies, but everyday folk like you and I could eventually learn to cast simple spells."

He wasn't even lying on that front. Some were more gifted than others in the arcane, but he hadn't personally seen anyone with a keen enough mind being unable to access the power of the Weave. If Rukaza, bless his half-orc soul, could become a Wizard of the First Level just because of simple curiosity, despite his preferred method of combat involving charging into battle while frothing at the mouth with rage, anyone could learn to distil the raw essence of magic at the heart of the Weave.

"I wish we could do that in Tristain," she said wistfully, a hint of jealousy entering her voice. "I've never heard of a peasant that learned how to cast magic, except for disgraced nobles that lost their titles."

"Mmm." He made a non-committal sound. From what he gathered thus far, the fact that magic remained within bloodlines of the nobility seemed to point toward a method of inheritance similar to the gifts of Sorcerers. With a more structured method of study, could people like herself learn to wield the gift of the arcane too?

Probably, based on what his experiences in the many Planes he'd visited. Still, this land had already thrown him for a loop before, and it may be that the denizens of this land couldn't access the Weave without some essence present in noble blood suffusing them.

"We're here," Siesta said, pausing in front of one of the many rooms of the building after several flights of stairs. She opened the door, gesturing for him to enter.

The room was simple, and yet many times more extravagant than the ones he'd seen in the servants' quarters. A large, ornately-designed four-poster bed took centre stage, with finely carved furniture adorning the other corners of the room. By the side, a small pile of articles of clothing were haphazardly scattered on the floor.

"Guess that's the laundry, huh?" He turned back to face Siesta, still standing by the door. "Thank you very much for your help."

She seemed startled, as though not expecting to be thanked for what she'd done. Poor girl. These students must not have treated her well. "I- it's no problem," she stammered momentarily. "Are you sure you don't need help with that?"

To be fair, it was quite a sizeable pile that had built up. How long had she gone without washing her clothes? It would probably take close to an hour to wash those by hand.

To a Wizard, though, it would only take several seconds.

"I'll be fine." He smiled warmly at her. "Thank you very much, Siesta."

Again, she faltered, but then hurriedly bowed toward him and took her leave. He shook his head. Someone had to be nice to these servants, and the task fell to him if these noble brats weren't doing so. Perhaps when he returned to Toril, he should look into the many invitations he'd received and see if their academies operated in a similar manner. There was nothing that built the mental discipline every Wizard required quite like being self-sufficient, rather than relying on servants for things as mundane as cleaning.

He gathered the clothing that had been strewn across the floor, placing them into a neat pile. With a quick incantation and a flick of his fingers, Prestidigitation instantly cleared up the stains. With a second spell, he twisted the essence of magic that flowed in the space around him, conjuring an Unseen Servant invisible to all but his own sight.

"Fold these for me, please, then place them over by the bed," he requested.

With that, his construct that comprised of shapeless force made manifest began in its task. Idly, he wandered around the room, inspecting the dwelling of the one who had summoned him here. There wasn't all that much in comparison to his own tower. A few books were placed on the bookshelves and study desk. Idly, he flipped through one of them, raising an eyebrow when he realised it was a spellbook.

Who just leaves a spellbook out in the open like that? Those were the lifeblood of wizards!

He flipped through the pages with closer scrutiny, but try as he might it was just too far out of established and accepted magical theory to make reasonable sense of any of it. He was used to pages riddled with many diagrams and notations for the desired vibrational output in the Weave created through material, somatic and verbal components of a spell, not vague terms thrown about like 'the incantation is Rel-In-Yan' and to 'visualise the desired material'. If nothing else, that seemed to be more in line with how Sorcerers perceived spellcasting.

He could have reverse-engineered some aspects of the spell he had personally observed Chevreuse casting, given sufficient time to work his observations into a theoretical structure and then further experimentation to refine the spell after factoring in minute differences in magical oscillations in the local Plane, but the information presented on the pages alone weren't revealing anything to him. Such a shame; he thought he'd finally lucked out heavily upon discovering those precious spellbooks.

Well, he could always satisfy his other interest in other fields. Beyond the tomes of arcane texts and enchanted scrolls that were locked in his library, he possessed a decent collection of bestiaries and historical accounts recovered from the distant corners of Toril and beyond. Unfortunately, Louise's room seemed to be bereft of such books.

No matter. His spectral servant had completed his task with remarkable efficiency, waiting dutifully for his next command beside a pile of clothes that had been folded far too neatly for human hands. His 'master' hadn't left any further instructions for him, so…

He exited the room, dismissing the construct with a wave of his hand. The Vallière girl had been far too lackadaisical in her summoning and instructions following that, even though the binding magic of the ritual hadn't seemed to affect him. If she had summoned any wizard other than himself, he doubted they would have taken to her use of Gate as kindly as he did.

Ah, well; it was fortunate for both parties that he'd been brought here then. Exiting the student's quarters, he began making his way toward the large building that stood at the very centre of the pentagonal structure of the Academy. If he knew his magical institutions well, there should be a library in there somewhere.

All he needed now was some fine wine and a lack of interruptions while he perused their book collections. Perhaps he could take some books and retreat to his Magnificent Mansion for the rest of the day. Now that was an idea.

He hummed a jovial tune, ignoring the students now returning after their day of classes. For once, he wasn't being pestered by junior wizards and sorcerers for an apprenticeship or a demonstration.

This was shaping up to be a most perfect vacation indeed.