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“Entry 7 ~

I presume it is only the question of time until one must ask themselves the query: “What is my lot in life? Throughout the years my form has been awash with countless experienced gathered up by my senses… the blood of my father and mother wrought the parchment that my portrait has been painted on, but to what avail? Am I just another in the endless cycle of life and death, and in the blink of a Fate’s eye I will be nothing more than bone and dust? What is the purpose in this transition-of-a-life in the mortal world?” It is long since that I have procured an answer to myself for the latter of the questions. Or, at the very least, it has been an elimination of a possible choice of answers: I am not here to pander to the will of the gods. What they scribe to be my purpose after they have enfettered my spirit will be up to them to decide, as I doubt I will have the power to rebel, but while I walk this frozen ground on my own accord I will heed no prophecies.

Who am I, then, this wandering soul in a fleshy shell? What will I do with my hollow rebellion? In my retort, it would be nothing short of blind ignorance to forget my station as a weaver of spells. Yet, even amongst others of my kind, my role of a wizard floods a certain undeniable niche. This position is best explained by alluding to the infamous musing – “If you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to fish, you feed him for his life.” In mentioning those words, it would be a disservice not to throw in an additional piece of satire that my ears have happened upon during my travels: “…and if you teach a man of the gods, be assured that he will die praying for a fish.” I know not which philosopher’s lips have shared those past few syllables, but I must thank him for more than a single smile that I’ve experienced. However, I dance around the verdict I’ve attained. These men mentioned in the proverb could just as easily be replaced with the titles attributed to the castes of casters.

The cleric and the druid, servants of the divines whether they pray from a stone temple or a grassy knoll, they have been given their fish. They are given their fish daily, and they dare not bite the hand that feeds them. The sorcerer, he has been given his fish at birth… it is a large fish, and it will satiate his hunger for as long as he lives, but he dares not guide his vessel into the vaulting waves of the sea. The fishermen on the ocean of magic is the wizard. When the gods fall as have the primordial giants before them, we will still cast our lines. When the dragons wither into the folds of time and their bloodlines run as thin as water, we will still heave our nets. Until the deeps of magic cease to exist, there will be ones who seek the deeps for answers.

So what is this lot in life, to be a fisherman until the hemp lines turn palms to leather and the salt nestles in the cracks of skin? Just as fish’s meat feeds the body, the quest for arcane knowledge feed our souls. The fisherman asks not “should I go out an fish today?”. He knows the answer: without the fish, he would starve. Likewise, without our never-ending quest for the secrets beneath the waves, our egos and spirits would grow hollow. That is our lot in life; that is the source of our meaning. To fish; to practice the art of casting lines beneath the waves; to discover new breeds of fish and to offer our catch to our coastal village of fellow fishermen. Why ask “but what of tomorrow?” when the ocean still teems with mystery?”