Lore Segment: FORMAL COMPLAINT REGARDING UNAUTHORISED MAGICAL DISTURBANCES
To: The Warden’s Registry, Northern Territories Division
From: Magda Rootwhisper, Hedge Witch (Professional) Date: 4th Day, Summer’s First Moon
Re: Incident in the Ravines, Dawn, 1st Day, Summer’s First Moon
Dear Sir or Madam (though probably Sir, let’s be honest),
I am writing to lodge a formal complaint regarding an incident of gross magical negligence that occurred three days past in the ravine systems approximately fifty miles south of Drakkensund. The disturbance in question caused significant disruption to my professional activities, resulted in the loss of valuable spell components, and left me standing in freezing water with my skirt tucked into my knickers. I trust you can appreciate the severity of this situation.
Allow me to provide context.
On the morning in question, I was engaged in the collection of mud snails from the ravine pools. These are not, I hasten to add, common garden snails. Mud snails possess specific alchemical properties essential to advanced transmutation work, particularly in the realms of sympathetic magic and threshold manipulation. They are, in short, absolutely vital to my ongoing research and quite irreplaceable.
(Anyone suggesting I was collecting breakfast can kindly sod off. I am a professional practitioner of the magical arts, not some desperate pensioner scraping by on foraged food because the Registry refuses to properly fund retired practitioners who’ve given thirty-odd years of service to this ungrateful territory.)
The collection of said snails requires wading into pools at dawn, when the creatures are most active and their magical properties are at peak potency. This is delicate work. It demands concentration, proper timing, and a degree of physical discomfort I frankly resent at my age.
I had just located a particularly promising cluster when the incident occurred.
THE INCIDENT
Without warning, and certainly without any consideration for those of us attempting to conduct legitimate magical research in the vicinity, someone decided to engage in what I can only describe as theatrical and unnecessary lightweaving barely fifty yards from my position.
I looked up (one does, when there’s shouting) to see blue-white light erupting across the ravine like some sort of celestial firework display. A lattice, if you must know the technical details. Geometric. Precise. The sort of thing that takes decades to master and approximately three seconds to show off with.
Now, I’m not saying it wasn’t impressive. I’m not saying it wasn’t rather beautiful, in an entirely impractical sort of way. What I am saying is that when one is balanced precariously on slippery rocks with a bucket of irreplaceable spell components, one does not appreciate sudden displays of reality-defying magic without at least a polite warning.
The light was blinding. The magical discharge made my teeth ache. And the sheer surprise of it caused me to drop my bucket, sending three days’ worth of carefully gathered snails cascading back into the pool from whence they’d come.
Three. Days. Worth.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to collect mud snails? Of course you don’t. You’re probably sitting in a nice warm office in Drakkensund with a regular salary and no conception of what it’s like for those of us maintaining the magical infrastructure of this territory on a shoestring budget and a prayer.
THE LIGHTWEAVER IN QUESTION
I couldn’t see clearly (distance vision not what it was, Registry still hasn’t approved my spectacles request from eight months ago, funny that), but the wings rather gave it away. Constellation-marked. Blue. Tiorian Lightweaver, obviously. Lisera, I presume, since she’s the only one we’ve got.
Not that I’m suggesting she shouldn’t be allowed to defend herself or engage in whatever urgent magical business required such dramatic intervention. I’m simply suggesting that perhaps, perhaps, a modicum of consideration for innocent bystanders might be appropriate.
The lattice structure itself was flawless, I’ll grant you that. Each thread precisely angled, the whole thing humming with controlled power. The sort of work that requires instinctive mastery. I watched it catch and hold... well, something. I couldn’t quite see what. The angle was wrong, and I was rather preoccupied with watching my breakfast, I mean my vital spell components, float away.
But the craftsmanship was undeniable. Geometry made manifest. Light structured into architecture. The threads intersected at perfect angles, distributing force across the entire network like a spider’s web magnified to absurd proportions.
Quite beautiful, really.
Still bloody annoying, though.
ADDITIONAL COMPLICATIONS
I should mention that approximately halfway through this debacle, I experienced a hot flush. Because apparently the universe has decided that watching my livelihood, I mean my research materials, disappear whilst standing in cold water wasn’t sufficient humiliation. No, I also needed to be sweating like a roasting joint and considering whether drowning might be refreshing.
Menopause is not conducive to dignified responses to magical emergencies; I’ll tell you that for nothing.
By the time the whole spectacle had finished (mercifully brief, I’ll grant her that), I was cold, drenched, empty-handed, and thoroughly irritated. The Lightweaver vanished as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving no trace except the memory of blue-white brilliance and my profound annoyance.
I spent the following hour attempting to recapture escaped snails. Managed seven. Seven! Out of approximately forty-three. The rest are presumably living their best lives somewhere in the ravine pools, unaware of the critical role they were meant to play in my work.
FORMAL REQUEST
I am therefore requesting the following:
An official acknowledgement that unauthorised magical displays in public spaces, particularly those involving reality-defying light constructs, ought to come with some form of advance warning or at minimum a posted notice.
Compensation for lost spell components, valued at approximately two silver marks (the snails were exceptionally fine specimens).
Perhaps a small stipend for retired magical practitioners who’ve served this territory faithfully and are now reduced to foraging for their, I mean for spell components, at ungodly hours in freezing water.
Those bloody spectacles I requested eight months ago. My distance vision is appalling, and if I’m meant to avoid magical disturbances, I ought to be able to see them coming.
I await your response with bated breath and absolutely no expectation whatsoever that anything will come of this complaint, because in my experience, the Registry is excellent at cataloguing threats but somewhat less enthusiastic about supporting the people who’ve spent their lives dealing with said threats.
Yours in profound irritation,
Magda Rootwhisper Hedge Witch
(Professional, Retired, Underpaid, Overlooked)
Cottage Near the Ravines
(Please Don’t Visit, I’m Not Dressed for Company)
P.S. The wild garlic was excellent this year. Just thought I’d mention it. For spell-related purposes, naturally.
P.P.S. I don’t suppose the Registry has any openings for consultants on Lightweaving properties? I witnessed the whole thing at rather close range and could provide detailed technical analysis. Payment in coin, preserved goods, or fresh meat. I’m not proud.
P.P.P.S. I found three more snails this morning. Made a lovely breakfast. Spell. Made a lovely spell. Obviously.
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Author’s Note & Humble Disclaimer:
I am menopausal. Therefore, I reserve the right to make jokes about menopause.
If you’re also navigating this road, consider this a wink of solidarity rather than an insult.