At the top of the tower, candlelight through an ill-fitting door danced reflections down the staircase,
and an old and rough voice was speaking, alone, oblivious to the danger creeping closer, as clawed mists came gliding.
At the heart of a chalked symbol set with many candles, an old man in much-patched robes was on his knees, facing
the chalk image of a pointing human hand. A blue radiance outlined the hand, and both it and the chalkwork were his doing,
for he had dwelt long alone.
"For years I've served you, and the Great Lady, too," the wizard prayed. "I know how to smash things with spells
and to raise them, too. Yet I know little of the world outside my walls and need your guidance now, O Azuth. Hear me,
High One, and tell me, I pray: to whom should I pass on my magic?"
