[An ornate looking book, scribbled in a fine text, Red leather bound with a golden lock. Clearly expensive looking] And his head exploded like a melon, _________Memoirs and Personal thoughts of Senior Magus Azal Vrask________

It all happened rather quickly, to my recollection. We were having an argument. The worm spilled jam on my fresh stack of scrolls. I felt Kossuth's nagging rage clawing its way from the inside of my stomach. My first day under the new Magus, A lad nary the age of 12, and this pathetic excuse for a worm had spilled his snack upon my new scrolls. My original intention was to simply berate him verbally, perhaps a few insults about the fact that he was as wide as a minotaur was tall, But alas, Life rarely happens as we plan it.

As fate would have it, The Magus was passing by as I exclaimed my outrage. A perfect opportunity to prove myself. My father had told me of a rather sinister incantation before my leaving, said to be only used as a "Last Resort". To my eternal shaping, it was most effective. A series of runic words, a brief gesture, and placing my hand upon his face. That was all it would take. And so, As the child as big as a terrasque, simply laughed and made rather subtle jokes to my Father's sexual orientation, and the productiveness of my mother in his bed last night, I began to mummer. It was rather clever, if I do say so myself. Posing as a sniveling child, The magus began to sneer. And that is when it happened, My introduction to Evocation.

The blink of an eye. I gripped his face in my left hand, I always favored the warmth with that one, and with my palm on his nose, and my fingers extending up his scalp, my thumb and pinky pressing the bone along his eyesockets on each side, I exlaimed the final word.

The day my life was changed forever. The day I began my rise to star pupil, and the day I discovered my love of Evocation.

He let out a womanly, piercing scream, the Magus laughed, and his head exploded like a Melon...

This city never ceases to amaze.

A good deal of contacts and such, though I am still eager to learn word from the Spellguard.

Should they refuse my kind offer of lending Thayvian Might to their cause, then I shall continue pursuing that of my own.

As a Senior Magus now, I've put word out for apprentices. Those mages willing to set aside "Morals" and other foolish concepts of this city, and embrace Thayvian way, will find themselves enriched both magically and physically.

The Associate offices of the spellguard would serve well, as a foundation and local for study and training, though I am eager to receive word of my acceptance into their order. It appears my Thayvian Heritage as a "Bad image" to associate with the Spellguard. Such is their loss.

My attempts to find a map-maker to traverse Underdark, attempting to find Skullport has failed miserably, My offer to Mur was rejected until i've the coin to fund it, and now I'm left awaiting word from an apprentice or Spellguard.

The waiting.

The patience.

The calm between storms. It is not meant for Warriors. It slowly is tearing me apart. The boredom.

Wanton slaughter of Trolls, Chosen, and various other foolish races is quickly becoming boring. There is no tactical implications. They scream and holler for pathetic enhancements to their strength, or their mind, or to their flesh.

Afterwords, it is simply run and slaughter. Its pathetic.

This city is taking a toll on me, and their piss water ale is becoming my closest friend.

I'm too strong to succumb to alcohol, but the scent is pleasent at least. Moreso anyway than the dead pixie I sprinkle on my parchment to make an impression.

Waiting. Simply waiting. Blades cut the flesh. Magic tweaks the mind. But waiting. Waiting kills the soul. Mine screams for freedom.

If the spellguard pass, and no apprentices approach, Perhaps I'll retire to a cave somewhere, and simply focus on prayer to Kossuth and increasing my knowledge of the weave in quiet solitude.

But the waiting...