Library: The boy who cried '#'

It was not unusual they had to hire them this young. Ancient art of sorcery was fading, scholars and teachers diminishing in number. Was all too common nowadays that youngsters admired frolicking and slacking in general more than spending their days in damp dimly lit libraries. Parties set out on adventures and raids were hard enough to organize as it was, and now there was more muscle than competent magicians for hire. So they rode out the city gates amongst them a brand new member, a young boy. A novice explorer. A duckling savant in magic lore. Young ones. Youth. How exasperating it was to bear witness to when you yourself are past that season, forever. Not a worry in the world. Not a single scar in the face to remind you of a battle won or a lesson learned. Rosy cheeks to match the hue. Two tiny sparkling eyes like lost diamonds. Stern posture almost as to defy the melancholy of a rainy morning. There was something irritating even about this boy's stride, hopping along humming and smiling like there was nothing askew in the world. Nevertheless the party had been short a man and the young magician was their only choice for the moment. Who knew, maybe he would prove to be a worthy member once he got some blood under his nails in the line of fire. If not, they could always ditch him discreetly once they got back to town. If they got back to town. War was a dangerous trade after all. -- Days passed, they fought their way through minor disputes and battles. The young duckling magician held his place in combat nicely, showing promising courage and adaptability under fire. The second week on the campaign they finally got to real battle. A real dragon, ruling a citadel. Fairy tale legendary monster in it's shiny armour lurking in the nest filled with treasures and coin. The dragon would put their names to the test. A moment of glory and songs. Or the end, demise of them all. The gargoyle the band had chosen as their leader yelled out orders and tactics concerning the fight. He and the other two brutes, a titan and a gloomy lich, would hold the dragon back and prevent it from hurting the little folk, healers and magicians including the young boy. Their leader winked a reassuring smile and promised them fame and fortune including uncanny loot in the end. The minstrel blew his battle horn, a praise to war and the band marched on to combat. Time is different in combat. It flows like liquid, ever changing. A lifespan caught in a heartbeat. A beautiful ballet of warfare was painted on an immaculate canvas before them. Swing of an axe, flaming spell from a sorcerer, thump of a shield holding back the enemy and a healer among them all running for the wounded. Their gargoyle leader had chosen they would engage the dragon in short bursts, quick offensive maneuvers followed by a defensive stance. Blood, sweat, repetition and the road to riches. Even the young duckling was hurling magic spells at the dragon like a veteran of warfare with an arrogant smile on his face. Never occuring to him that his life was soon coming to an end. So self-confident had the young magician become that he started shouting insults during the battle and laughing at the dragon. He hurled his spells with unnecessary vigor and excessive dramatic moves. When the leader ordered them to fall back the young duckling was already concentrating on another spell towards the dragon. He traced the runes of his chant and quacked '#' for them all to hear. When the leader led them to safety the young boy was slapping his thighs and shouting in disappointment. All the other seasoned fighters were happy to still be alive and busy getting ready for the next onslaught, but the newcomer magician appeared irritated. Oozing with battle nectar, drunk on power he claimed to beat the dragon all by himself if just the others let him. Sulking in the corner he finally stopped ranting. The older adventurers exchanged muffled grunts and glances with each other knowingly, they had seen this sort of behavior before. Next couple of onslaughts went smoothly, no major injuries to report, no lives lost. The young boy had his game face on again and was hurling his spells and shouting insults yet again. Preparing to retreat for a defensive move, the leader ordered them to fall behind him and head back for a regroup. The young duckling was frowning and chanting his magic incantations, and this time it came out a high pitched squeal as the boy exclaimed: '#', while spreading his hands in a ridiculously dramatic movements. Of course it was too late by then to be casting another spell, and they raised their shields in unison to defend themselves. The boy cast sour looks all around and crossed his sinewy hands on his chest. 'Just you wait and see', he said as if a promise to himself. Other members of the group tried to ignore the duckling and started to get ready for the battle again. There was a lot of things to do and to be taken care of, even without a juvenile duck sulking and muttering beside them. Some archmage the little boy had become in a week or two. In the heat of the battle such things were soon forgotten. Swing of an axe, flaming spells and thumping shields all over again. the dragon was starting to yield, they all saw it's vigor droop. The young duck magician seemed eager to be the hero of the day and be the one to finish the dragon. His incantations were again too loud for his puny voice, his webbed hands flailing about vigorously. Their leader was about to order them back to defence for another breather, when the young boy cried from the bottom of his lungs: '#' ! -- Days afterwards their thoughts would wander back to the glorious battle against the dragon and the unfortunate departure of the young duckling magician. The band had offered their condolences for his family, some members had even wept during the burial of his scorched remains. During the minister's long and extravagant sermon the leader of the group, the gargoyle dressed in black stone, had a vivid flashback of their last moments facing the dragon. Even now, he wasn't sure if he'd got sloppy and pushed too far when he knew the dragon would have some trick up it's sleeve - or if he had done it on purpose. Or because of that young magician's performance. That arrogant little bastard duck acting up like he owned the world, the gargoyle recalled, shouting and yelling and going for the kill. For a moment he even thought the duck could manage it and kill the dragon with his last hurling spell, they all did. The band had killed the dragon but the young magician was not there anymore to witness the occasion. Their minstrel had later depicted the duck's last tormenting moments in a masterpiece called "Duck a l'Orange" (charcoal, mixed techniques) which they hung on the wall of their guild. In the middle of the painting stood the young magician, scorched by the dragon's lightning storm of spells and a huge orange thunderbolt touching his face, feathers ablaze and his hands and legs like slowly cooking drumsticks still flailing wildly. Around him were pictured the band of adventurers, some with courteously worried expressions and some less grim, borderlining hilarity and mirth. Watching the painting, one could almost hear the magician in the center go '#' with one finger raised, though now on fire, like a trickster in a magic show holding a candle and trying to make it disappear.

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Library: The boy who cried '#'