Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Ballad of Salt and Madness
"Welcome, viewers of wonder and hunger, to yet another riveting installment of Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals. But today, we do not trudge through goblin markets. Today, we do not consult whispering tombs. Today, we glamor."
The orb hovered before Zorko’s glowing blue eyes as he stood beneath the gilded marble archway of Red Wizard Capital Records, its runes pulsing like restrained applause. The scent of ambition and citrus spells hung in the air.
"I have been summoned here, yes summoned, by none other than the city’s own bard of legend, the titan-toppling, harmony-hurling herald of hip-hop arcana himself: Kanye, Killer of Titans."
He took a breath, fingers tightening on his feather.
"His name is not merely a name; it is a verse. A legacy. And today, he comes bearing an item said to rival even his greatest ballads, a personal creation, a sacred accessory, a glint of glory: the Golden Scarab."
Zorko lowered his feather reverently.
"A treat of unfathomable rarity, whispered through the Vampyre Mist, acquired through means I can only describe as 'fabulously above my pay grade.'"
The orb flickered softly as the words hung in the air.
"And now we wait. For music. For meaning. For magic."
From the sky above came a pulsing bassline, deep and smooth, like a yacht made of rhythm descending through clouds.
A velvet-red flying carpet coasted down through the skyline, slowing to a perfect stop outside the record building. At its helm stood a parrot.
"Kim," Zorko whispered, recognizing the bird instantly.
Then came the boots. Gilded at the heel, velvet-wrapped, silent despite their weight. Kanye emerged, smiling like a prophecy fulfilled.
"Zorko," he said, arms outstretched like he was greeting an old collaborator.
Zorko forced a bow, his hand hovering near the orb as if seeking comfort.
The parrot squawked.
Kanye stepped forward with unhurried ease, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. "Let’s talk shine, my friend."
Zorko straightened with as much composure as someone in spiritual awe could muster.
"It is an honor," he said. "I have appraised relics that sing, yes, but none with actual platinum records."
Kanye chuckled. "You flatter me. But hey, you have fans in high places. Even the Parrot King watches your show."
He gestured toward the record building behind them.
"Actually just wrapped the first single for the new album inside. Got the mix locked an hour ago."
His grin widened. "Title track’s called Golden Scarab. Figured I'd bring you something equally rare to celebrate."
Zorko blinked. "He... he does?"
Kim squawked again, rhythmically.
"That is her impression of your intro from the Twin Vases episode," Kanye added casually.
Zorko nearly fainted.
Kanye reached into his coat and pulled forth a small, velvet box.
"So," he said, voice suddenly reverent, "this is the one. Commissioned it after the Titan Tour. Cost more than the boat. Worth it."
He opened the box.
Inside lay the Golden Scarab.
Its shell gleamed like sunlight caught in crystalized honey. The wings shimmered with arcane filigree. Its eyes were twin emeralds. The orb dimmed automatically, unable to compete.
Zorko gasped. "That is not jewelry. That is a divine punctuation mark."
"Had it custom-forged by a rune-smith in the Vampyre Mist," Kanye said. "Only ten exist. This one's got a soul sample in it. You wear it, and the beat syncs to your aura."
Zorko leaned in, glowing. "The craftsmanship... the cut... the internal harmony..."
Kanye nodded. "A masterpiece. Took three years, six enchanters, and an ethically sourced djinn."
Zorko stopped, feather hovering mid-air. Something inside him shivered. A tiny thread of doubt.
He looked more closely.
"Did you say... ethically sourced?"
Zorko leaned in, eyes shimmering.
"Ah, yes. The triple-tiered hexaglyph cut, a design favored by astral royalty. See how the wing curvature mirrors the fractal echo of celestial migration patterns? This is not merely a jewel, my dear viewers. It is an echo of migration itself. A portable hymn to interstellar ambition."
Kanye smiled. "Yeah, that is cool."
Zorko’s voice lifted, fully in performance now.
"And note the subtle asymmetry in the emerald eyes. They speak to the balance of predation and preservation, the hunter’s mercy encoded into ornament!"
The orb flickered again, tracking his flourish.
Then, as he prepared another grand proclamation, the word 'ethically sourced' slid across his ear like a loose brick in a tower of certainty.
Zorko’s phoenix feather hovered like a divining rod caught between worship and warning. He cleared his throat.
"Fascinating," he said. "Just absolutely dazzling. Might I… inspect the aura sync?"
Kanye held the box forward without hesitation.
Zorko extended a cautious hand over the scarab. A glimmer of magic pulsed up his sleeve. Glyphs of appraisal formed in the air, shimmering gently.
The scarab responded. Sort of. It vibrated. It hummed. Then it burped.
Zorko flinched. "That was either a harmonic resonance or indigestion."
Kanye smiled. "It always does that. Means it is ‘feeling the room.’"
Zorko nodded with an expression that was ninety percent nodding and ten percent crisis.
He conjured a small tuning fork made of enchanted silver. "Let’s check the note signature, shall we?"
He struck it against his own boot and held it near the scarab.
Nothing.
He adjusted it, squinting. "Hrm. May I try, just a secondary sweep, for harmonic layering?"
Kanye raised an eyebrow. "You are the expert."
Zorko summoned a third glyph ring, this one in a key reserved for soul-forged items. Still nothing. Not a ripple. Not a ping.
Zorko’s eyes began to twitch.
He muttered, "I knew a guy who bought a ‘genuine hydra scale’ from a Mist-market vendor once. Turned out to be dyed manticore dandruff."
Kim squawked as if warning him, then added a flat “uh-oh” that drew a sideways glance from Kanye.
Zorko spun away, whispering frantically to the orb. "If I misstep, I risk sullying the sanctity of appraisal itself. But if I remain silent, the artifact’s song may die unheard."
He hovered on the edge of pronouncement, torn between academic glory and catastrophic misjudgment.
Zorko’s hand trembled as he gestured toward the scarab.
"It must be, yes, a reactive glamour-void! A shell of non-resonant nullification, shielding the soul-sample behind a prism of sympathetic echo-cancellation. Brilliant. Dangerous. Fashionable!"
The orb dimmed slightly in confused awe.
"But if that is true..." Zorko whispered, "then the aura sync would require inverted glyph harmonics tuned against the wearer’s astral twin!"
The panic was real, but the theory was worse.
And then: the soft crackle of spatial pressure. The faint smell of binding ink and burnt logic.
Without a spell cast or glyphs drawn, Uvlius appeared.
He stood precisely between Zorko and Kanye. His hood was pulled deep, his sigh already loaded.
"You are spiraling," he said flatly.
Zorko blinked. "Uvlius! What? Why? How?"
"Noise," Uvlius said. "Psychic and otherwise. I felt it two districts away."
He looked down at the open box.
"That is the Scarab?"
Kanye nodded once. Calm. Cool.
Uvlius examined it. Squinted once. Took out a tiny monocle made from whatever contempt crystallizes into.
Zorko shifted awkwardly. "I—I couldn’t get a ping. No harmonic return. And it burped."
Uvlius ignored him.
He held the monocle up to one of the scarab’s emerald eyes. Paused. Then flipped the monocle to its inverse side.
"Ah."
Zorko leaned forward. "Ah what?"
Uvlius blinked slowly. "You were using a third-tier frequency scan."
"Yes?"
"Try a fourth-tier sympathetic enchantment reversal."
Zorko hesitated. "That is obscure. Arcane. Borderline petty."
"Exactly," Uvlius said.
He turned to Kanye. "It is real. Very real. Do you know what it’s keyed to?"
Kanye tilted his head. "No."
Uvlius smirked. "Your name."
Kim let out a long, satisfied whistle.
Uvlius stepped back. "Soul samples are impressionable. You didn’t get scammed. You got personalized."
Zorko sank slightly into himself with a whimper of relieved embarrassment.
Uvlius turned. "You’re welcome. Try not to spiral again. I’m leaving."
And just like that, gone.
Zorko stood very still.
The scarab, now safely returned to Kanye’s hand, shimmered more warmly than before, as if basking in the validation. Kim preened her feathers approvingly.
Zorko cleared his throat.
"Viewers, today was not merely a review of a rare item. It was an odyssey of truth, panic, soul resonance, and the hazards of mistaking a burp for fraud."
He turned to the orb, more composed now.
"The Golden Scarab is authentic. It is keyed, mystically and sentimentally, to the bearer’s true name. Its aura, once hidden to common scans, is proof of the artistry and trickery of soul-magic craftsmanship."
Kanye gave a small nod. "You handled that better than I expected."
Zorko gave a weak smile. "Internally, I collapsed twice."
He raised his phoenix feather.
"Final appraisal: One of ten in existence. Resonates with wearer’s soul. Appraises at… well, priceless, depending on how loud your aura sings."
Kanye snapped the box shut and tucked it away. "Appreciate it, Zorko."
Zorko exhaled.
"And now, dear viewers: may your treasures be true, your enchantments verified, and your soul artifacts burp only with proper cause."
The orb gave a soft ping as Zorko finished.
As Kanye boarded his carpet and Kim squawked her approval, Zorko slowly sat on the marble steps. The orb hovered beside him, pulsing once, gently, like a quiet exhale of shared relief.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
Sad Pedro
"Welcome," Zorko intoned, raising his feather as if commanding the ferns themselves.
"To a ruined greenhouse where the vines remember hunger, and the glass still dreams of sunlight."
He stood in a ruin of rusted glass and twisted green, where broken panes let sunlight spill in watery streaks across crumbling stone. Vines choked the rafters above. Ferns blinked. Moss glowed. A cluster of mushrooms whispered in the corner but fell silent when Zorko turned.
He raised his phoenix feather, which flickered red against the creeping green light.
"Here, long ago, the wizards of Bloomspire whispered to their houseplants until the plants whispered back. They spoke in chlorophyll riddles. They meditated in root networks. They were eaten by begonias."
Zorko moved with the reverent grace of someone who did not trust a single leaf.
He stopped beside a cracked pedestal, half-swallowed by moss, crowned with a slow-drifting halo of fungal spores.
"This," he said, resting one gloved hand atop the stone, "is where we meet today’s artifact. A relic so cursed it requires no containment sigils. For it contains itself."
A vine slithered toward his boot. Without looking, Zorko flicked his feather in its direction. The vine recoiled, grumbling.
"It is known by many names," he intoned. "The Verdant Maw. The Thorned Whisper. The Flytrap of Regret. A plant so carnivorous it once devoured a mime and burped in perfect silence." He turned slowly to face the orb, blue eyes glowing beneath his hood.
"And today... it returns."
A ripple passed through the room, bending the light in a soft sideways fold.
Zorko stiffened.
The pedestal glowed.
And from behind a tangle of moss and bent metal, Ghost Eater Kobold of the Technochrome stepped into view.
His cloak swirled with impossible color. It shimmered with shifting prismlight that played tricks on every reflective surface. Flowers perked up as he passed. A chunk of moss rolled itself flat to be stepped on. Somewhere, glass sang.
Ghost Eater smiled like someone who had just remembered the punchline to a cosmic joke. He carried a stout, healthy cactus in one hand. In the other, a half-eaten taco.
Behind him, Skramps slithered out from under a fern, blinked twice, and made a low whirring noise before settling in to gnaw on the glowing fungus.
Zorko blinked. Stared at the cactus.
"That... is not a Venus Flytrap," he said, cautiously.
"Nope," said Ghost Eater. "It’s a cactus. San Pedro. Best grilled. Got a little kick."
He took another bite of his taco and chewed thoughtfully.
Zorko slowly walked a circle around the cactus, feather twitching in anticipation. The cactus sat calmly in its bone-white pot. It had three thick stalks. The thorns shimmered faintly. There were no teeth. But the air around it... vibrated.
"It hums," Zorko breathed.
"Yep," said Ghost Eater. "Means it’s ripe."
He pulled a second taco from somewhere inside his robe. "Want one?"
Zorko stared at it.
Then, very slowly, took the taco.
The cactus hummed louder.
Zorko turned to the orb.
"The appraisal," he said solemnly, "begins."
Zorko sniffed the taco.
It smelled like cinnamon, smoke, and something... nostalgic. Not his nostalgia. Someone else’s. Possibly a goat’s.
He took a cautious bite.
At first: warmth, char, a hint of lime. Then the second flavor wave hit, like remembering a birthday party that never happened. He gasped.
Ghost Eater was already halfway through his second taco. "Told you. Tastes like dreams. Or onions. Could be onions."
Zorko staggered back a half-step, feather twitching.
"This is no ordinary culinary artifact," he declared. "This is emotional cuisine. This taco is showing me things."
Ghost Eater nodded approvingly. "You’re not supposed to look directly at the third layer."
Zorko blinked rapidly. "Third... layer?"
He turned back to the cactus, which now glowed faintly from within. The glow pulsed, not quickly, not steadily. Just... in rhythm. As if it was breathing.
"It’s awakened," Zorko whispered.
Ghost Eater tossed a few extra cactus cuts into a heated stone pan he had casually placed on a mossy ledge. Where had he gotten a pan? Where had the fire come from? Unclear.
"You think it’s magical?" he asked, flipping a slice.
Zorko stared at him.
"You brought me a sentient succulent that sings to the soul, manifests third-layer flavors, and hums in 3/4 time, and you think it’s maybe magical?"
"I mean," Ghost Eater said, "depends how fresh it is. Sad Pedro doesn’t always hum."
Zorko raised a trembling finger.
"You named it Sad Pedro?"
"Well, it looks kinda sad."
Zorko turned slowly back to the orb.
"I am being haunted by a culinary prophet. It has a name. It hums. It tastes like spiritual reconciliation and regret with a hint of roasted pepper."
He turned back to the cactus. It sat still. Proud. Possibly smug.
He crouched beside it, peering into the spines.
"This is not a cactus. This is a sentient memory trap. This is a dream thorn from the Feywild’s digestive tract. This is a flytrap in denial."
Ghost Eater, from the pan: "It’s literally a cactus."
"Your words are betrayal," Zorko muttered. "And yet... your tacos speak truth."
He took another bite.
The air shimmered.
Somewhere far off, a choir sang a single note in F#.
Zorko turned to the orb, eyes wide, taco held aloft like a relic.
"The gateway has opened."
Zorko stood perfectly still. Taco in one hand. Feather in the other. Expression glassy, as if mid-revelation or spiritual reboot.
He turned slowly to Ghost Eater.
"Did you hear that?"
Ghost Eater chewed thoughtfully. "Hear what?"
"The... harmonized regrets. They just sang ‘hello.’"
"Oh, yeah. They do that sometimes. That means it’s working."
Zorko blinked.
The cactus on the pedestal now shimmered like heat haze over an oasis. A second cactus had appeared beside it. Identical in every way. Possibly more judgmental.
"Are... are there two of them now?" Zorko asked.
Ghost Eater squinted. "Hmm. Could be a mirage. Could be twins. Sometimes Pedro splits if you over-season him."
Zorko took another bite. Time hiccupped.
The orb dimmed slightly, as if sharing his rising uncertainty.
Somewhere to his left, the air cracked open like a zipper. A goose in a wizard hat stepped out, honked three times, and vanished.
Zorko whirled.
"THE COUNCIL HAS ARRIVED."
Ghost Eater leaned against a glowing fern. "That’s good. Means the judgment phase is starting."
Zorko fell to his knees and began drawing a summoning circle in spilled taco grease.
He chanted, eyes glowing.
Ghost Eater added sour cream.
A shimmer passed through the greenhouse. For one beat, everything inverted, light became shadow, glass grew moss, and Skramps began to float.
He levitated sideways, turned twice, and landed in Ghost Eater’s arms like a sleepy bag of dreams.
Skramps blinked. Opened his mouth. Spoke, clear as bells.
"Only those who chew with purpose shall unlock the second flavor."
Zorko gasped. "Skramps can talk?!"
Ghost Eater shrugged. "Only during the third hallucination phase. Or Thursdays."
Zorko stood abruptly, arms outstretched.
"I am become Taste. Destroyer of Bland."
A halo of rainbow light erupted behind him. The vines on the ceiling bowed.
He turned to Ghost Eater, fire in his eyes, taco sauce on his robe.
"I demand a duel."
Ghost Eater finished his taco. Pulled another one from his robe pocket.
"I accept."
The orb flickered. A rainbow lens flare drifted slowly across the greenhouse for no reason.
Zorko raised his taco like a wand.
Ghost Eater mirrored him.
They stepped in slow circles, the way old wizards used to dance before judgment.
Spices sparkled in the air. The cactus hummed louder.
Skramps floated gently to the floor and began drawing a scorecard with a crayon.
From the shadowed glass, Uvlius of the Belfry stepped calmly into view.
He walked in like someone returning to a misplaced paragraph.
Zorko stood with one foot on a broken pedestal and the other planted in a pot of glowing soil. He held his taco high above his head like a sacrament. His voice was booming and faintly echoing, even though no one else was speaking.
"I have communed with the spice! I have walked the Tortilla Path! I have named the peppers!"
Ghost Eater sat cross-legged beside the humming cactus, happily chewing on a grilled slice of its twin.
"Careful," he said around a mouthful. "Third bite starts to loop time."
A vine dipped from above and gently fed Zorko a lime wedge. He did not question it.
A breeze whispered through the greenhouse, cooler, sharper. Less absurd.
Zorko froze.
Then pointed dramatically. "BEHOLD! A spectral judge from the Ministry of Taste arrives!"
Uvlius paused.
Looked at the pedestal. At the glowing cactus. At Zorko, now barefoot, robes damp with salsa. At Ghost Eater, who offered him a freshly grilled slice.
Then back to the cactus.
"It’s a San Pedro," Uvlius said flatly.
Zorko gasped. "It has a name."
"Common desert cactus," Uvlius continued. "Hallucinogenic properties when ingested. Also mildly toxic if undercooked."
Ghost Eater nodded. "Hence the toasting."
Uvlius looked back to Zorko, who appeared to be quietly sobbing into a tortilla.
"You’re hallucinating," Uvlius said.
Zorko held out the taco. "But with honor."
Uvlius ignored it.
Skramps wandered up beside him, holding a crayon and a nearly illegible scoring sheet.
Uvlius looked down.
"Round two goes to Ghost Eater," Skramps said solemnly.
Uvlius gave the faintest nod. "I agree."
Ghost Eater tossed Skramps a cucumber slice. Skramps caught it midair and vanished behind a fern, presumably to continue judging the universe.
Uvlius turned back to the orb.
"I’ve catalogued this item before. It’s mildly enchanted. Not especially rare. But dangerous if consumed recklessly."
He gave Zorko a pointed look.
Zorko stared back, eyes glassy.
"I was born beneath a sky that could not choose between storm or sun."
Uvlius turned toward the exit.
"I’ve seen enough. I’m leaving."
And just like that, gone.
The light had changed.
The mist thinned. The ferns quieted. Somewhere, a vine sighed and curled back into itself.
Zorko sat cross-legged on the mossy floor, his robe rumpled, cheeks streaked with what may have been salsa or tears. The taco was gone.
Ghost Eater stood nearby, dabbing his snout with a napkin made from what looked suspiciously like rainbow silk.
"Well," Ghost Eater said. "That went better than last time."
Zorko blinked slowly.
His voice, when it came, was reverent.
"Sad Pedro... showed me every mistake I’ve never made."
He turned to the orb. "And they were all beautiful."
Ghost Eater patted the cactus fondly. It purred. Or burped. Hard to say.
Zorko slowly stood, adjusted his hood, and raised his phoenix feather in solemn appraisal.
"This item," he said, "is not a trap. Nor a weapon. Nor a plant of prophecy."
He turned, robe flowing behind him, pacing once around the pedestal.
"It is a culinary mirror. A gustatory oracle. A psychedelic vegetable that demands respect... and lime."
He stopped. Faced the orb.
"Final appraisal: Technically a cactus. Practically a portal. Spiritually a friend."
Ghost Eater grinned. "Told you it was good in tacos."
Zorko nodded once.
He reached out and gave the cactus the gentlest of taps with the feather.
The cactus wiggled—just a little. Then settled.
Zorko turned to Ghost Eater.
"May your spice always be balanced."
Ghost Eater bowed with dramatic flair. "And may your salsa be sincere."
Skramps wandered back into view, riding a lazy vine like a gondola. He held up the scorecard.
It read: Zorko – 9 / Ghost Eater – 11 / Cactus – Moon
Zorko saluted him. Skramps did not return it, but the gesture was felt.
Zorko turned once more to the orb.
The orb pulsed once, soft and steady, as Zorko finished.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
