Galcous, He-Witch

The he-witch began his spell, as he crushed the last of his 32 Fiendish Herbs and Spices into his spell cauldron which also doubled as a soup cauldron on Sundays when his grandmama came over to his Den of Malice.

'Santis, Mirstal, Revzso, Bhallial!' the he-witch cackled.

The cauldron bubbled and spewed acrid smoke, as the he-witch laughed his best maniacal laughter. Vaporous serpentine figures of a myriad colours rose majestically from the cauldron. Each figure was unique, yet similar, gaseous entities complementing and competing with each other. They started entwining into smoke helixes, looking both beautiful and toxic at the same time...and also choking up the enclosed cavern space.

'FUCK!' the he-witch coughed.

He had not accounted for the fact that he added twice as much virgin tears and his brew was now producing too much smoke! He stole a glance at his brew through tear blurred eyes. The brew was going volatile! Hem of his sorcerer cloak clutched to his face, the he-witch scrambled for his ingredients on his work table, frantically searching for something to stabilise the vile concoction he was brewing. 'Aha!' he exclaimed and grabbing a fistful of gypsy toes, he tossed it into the cauldron.

At first, the cauldron's content seemed to calm down and the smoke started coagulating into a deep black tentacle. And then 'WHOMP', the cauldron imploded on itself and exploded, wispy tendrils of glorious golden emanating spreading throughout the cavern space and sending shrapnel flying everywhere, knocking the he-witch off his feet and causing destruction and disarray in his Den.

Galcous the He-Witch of Agrammus, for the umpteenth time of his sorcering career so far, heaved a defeated sigh, as he sat up, surveying the mess that was now his Den. Another sigh escaped his persons and he proceeded to begin the tedious process of cleaning up his Den. The mess and destroyed equipment he could replace: he went through cauldrons like a Tes'pien whore going through clients after all. It was the fact that he had to meet a deadline to complete this spell and so far after three failed attempts, he was nowhere near casting it in its entirety.

The spell was a particularly tricky one and was way above his mage grade, but when his client, Warlord S'zuklif offered to pay him his weight in gold, Galcous, greed and ego overriding all logical reasoning and better judgement, took the job. But with the spell nowhere near completed and his deadline approaching in this very night, he doubt he would be able to complete it for the Warlord.

This would undoubtedly, result in his client being most displeased. And Warlord S'zuklif, cruel and merciless bandit leader of the Vahrian Reapers, with a standing bounty for fifty thousand dragoons for banditry, murder, kidnap, arson and other similarly natured nefarious acts, was a person not easy to talk to or reasoned with when he was displeased. He shuddered at the thought of Ole Man Phannus, a farmer from the nearby village, skin flayed from his body just because he turned in his tribute a day later than expected.

Time running out, Galcous was at a loss of what to do to keep his head on his shoulders. He cursed loudly. He was royally fucked. He had gotten in over his head, giving promises he could not deliver, and now, his head was going to decorate one of the many pikes at the Warlord's stronghold and his body fed to the wolves. He was too damn young to die, he thought.

'Think, damn you, think! Blasted shithead! How are you gonna get yourself out of this one now?' Galcous railed at himself furiously. He aimed an angry kick at a dented steel pot (his grandmama's, he made a mental note to return it to her soon) but missed and stubbed his toes on a rock.

'FUCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK'

Cursing and swearing to all Forty Two Gods of the Pantheon, Galcous stomped around like a Wayrian berserker cutting through the battlefield. Finally, he settled down.

If his former classmates at Ss'rar College of Magic and Alchemy could see him now, their taunts and jests would be more than justified. Galcous the Inept they used to call him, especially that Elfen whoreson Malxfus. 'Arrogant son of a bitch' Galcous muttered under his breath, physically wincing at embarrassing memories brought up by mentioning that Elfe bastards name.

Galcous was picked on continuously by the tall and haughty Elfe. Most of the students and staff at Ss'rar were Elder Races and like any Elder Race born to his birth-right, Malxfus regarded Galcous with disdain. Galcous had managed to enter Ss'rar only on the merit that his uncle was once the chamber-boy and concubinus for Lichous The Malicious, one of the most fearsome warlocks in the history of fearsome warlocks.

So unlike his compatriots who had either come from strong wizarding families or backgrounds or were truly talented in the Arcane Arts, Galcous had only gotten in because The Great Fucker was fucking his uncle in the buttocks. Such was the source of much ridicule and embarrassment in his four winters enrollment in the College.

To make matters worse, he did not even excel in his studies and only graduated to qualify as a small village spook. He cursed again. He had always felt out of place in the College, never having any comrades or compadres. And that was another reason he felt compelled to take up the Warlord's offer. He had to prove to his naysayers, and himself, that he was not his given namesake. He glanced at the chronogague in his Den. He licked his lips anxiously. Just a few more hands towards the deadline. He sighed, resigned to his fate.