(On doing something (in the original a work of magic) usually considered extremely difficult, if not impossible, that the speaker mastered to the point it was near-trivial under [Name], but hasn't done for years)
(said fondly)
[Name] will reform from the ash of her own pyre and skin me if I fuck this up. -- RecklessPrudence
After the disaster that flattened the Forests of Ee, death covered the land like a blanket. The waters soured, and any living thing that entered the lowlands for an entire season choked and died. Winter wrapped the lands in even worse, and the survivors who eked a living out of the highlands were loath to re-enter what had once been a fertile valley.
Tebnir the Little had undertaken the long journey to find Salamer. The only surviving Mage who knew the Life Spells. Mages were peculiar sorts, preferring a life alone in distant towers. Staying away from people and studying. Or living their whole lives in libraries and not actually doing anything. But, once in a while, they could be swayed. If someone had a desperate plight. Or an interesting find. Or enough gold.
Tebnir had two of those things. So she spent a year walking to Salamer's tower. With hope in her heart and a seashell she had found in the mines. Pressed into a rock. From the top of a mountain. It had to be interesting enough to capture a scholar's interest. Or so she hoped. She certainly didn't have gold.
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