Aldinngenga's page

The wizard considers your query, stroking his mustache before replying. "I assure you, it is a pleasant surprise to me that you are so well-situated to fulfill my request. As to yours, however..."

After a moment he shrugs. "The power to banish a creature from this plane is beyond my ken. The fact that this scamp is willing, however, changes things. I might be able to devise a method to send him home, given time."

He nods agreeably. "By all means, borrow it. I can have another copy scribed in the meantime. As to what I require, if you can bring me a waterskin filled from a naiad's spring, that would be greatly appreciated."

At the mention of Irila, the wizard gives an exasperated heave of the brow, but declines to interrupt before you are finished.

"Galdrastafir, or runestaves, are logograms based on the language of the titans, from which Jotun is descended. While arcane magic derives from the morani, the wizard-king Gådalfí, cousin of Dvalinn and apprentice of the high elf Abramelindras, devised a system of recording it that became standard among the Röskarí before the eldest elf was born."

He waves a finger, and an invisible hand grabs a book off the shelf behind him and carries it across the room to land on the table. Its title, in Jotun, is The Art of Elder Signings.

"This is an excellent primer. It contains examples of thousands of symbols, as well as instructions on how to identify which lines and shapes in a given staff are the verbs and which are the nouns, adjectives, and so on. It won't answer every question; compound words can be drawn in countless different ways, and not every word can be covered. But the basic grammar is all here."

He offers the book to you and continues.

"As to the deeper mysteries, I will gladly teach you what I can, if you provide me with certain items I may need for my labors."

The wizard carefully plucks the letter from between your sharp talons and peruses it slowly, reluctant to reach the end he knows is there. He lowers it to the desk with a somber expression on his face.

"The young man had a great deal of promise, which is why I agreed to sponsor his education for service rather than coin. His practical knowledge of ley lines exceeded my own, and he was all of twenty winters old."

He sits quietly for a moment before turning to regard you once more, his professional demeanor back in place.

"You have the aura of a mage, the bearing of a warrior, and the mark of the Pale Gathering. You are an outlander from beyond the sea. You are not here on piddling business, though whether it involves me is yet to be seen." It is a statement, not a question.

"If it is education you seek, I will require service or coin commensurate to the task. You have the air of one who keeps their word and hungers for the deep teachings, so I can offer credit. I suggest we begin with the rudiments. Can you read runestaves?"

You head back across the bridge toward the address the gnomes gave you. Espying a two-story brownstone home, well-to-do but not overly baroque, you approach confidently. Even before you spot the signage on the lintel, the sight of a broom sweeping the patio under its own power betrays the building's identity beyond a shadow of a doubt, as does the runic stave carved into the door, which you recognize from your time with Nirri as a spell for safe passage in rough weather.

You rap the door with a taloned hand, and a gruff voice calls out from within.

"Enter!"

The latch lifts of its own accord, and the door opens. You step inside, beholding a short hallway with a series of doors leading off of it. The first on the left must lead to the parlor room you observed through the window out front, while the first on the right is open and leads to a now-empty makeshift schoolroom with four small desks arranged in a semicircle, whose focal point is a mahogany table at which sits a man who could only be Aldinngenga.

Dressed in finely-tailored sea-green robes with gold embroidery, and sporting a well-groomed mustache and intricately-braided hair, the Röskarí gentleman, who seems to be somewhere in his sixth decade, cuts an impressive figure.

Spying you, he puts down the glowing phial he had been handling, caps it with a piece of cork, and turns to study you. He frowns, furrowing his brow in concentration. To your surprise, his eyes are briefly consumed by a lambent blue glow. He nods, satisfied, and only then deigns to speak.

"Greetings, mage. What brings you to my home?"