A mischevious quill

The wizard smiled proudly, mocking the peasants who knew not what magic was, let alone wield it.

“I can easily fix your leg,” he yelled. The crowd cooed at his words, eyes focused on his form as he took out his Quill. He asked the man before him, “what is your name?”

“Why would you need my name,” the burly man replied, his leg oozing with blood that seemed not to bother him.

The wizard sighed at their ignorance, “magic is a fickle thing, so if I write down your name it will be easier to tame.”

“Fine,” he grumbled in reply, saying his name loudly in case it was misheard. Smiling in encouragement, the wizard began to write, which, went well until he was about half way through the last word.

“Will you stop that,” he mumbled at the quill, which, had decided to steer off to the side seeking escape. The quill giggled, feathers shimmering in excitement. “Now now,” the wizard began, “no need to embarrass me in front of -” he squeaked as his quill bounced out of his sweaty palm. Before he could do anything to stop it, the quill had disappeared into the grass, meaning, the wizard was left with a grumpy village he could now do nothing to impress.




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