Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals!
The Demon in the Bottle
“Today,” Zorko began, balancing on a levitating stone slab that wobbled like a dinner plate with stage fright, “we confront the untamable.”
The slab let out a soft grinding noise, as if offended.
Zorko paid it no mind. His red-orange robes shimmered with illusory wind, summoned solely for dramatic effect. His hood, deep as regret, cast his face in shadow, with only the signature blue glow of his enchanted eyeballs visible beneath. One flickered, but only briefly. He held his phoenix feather aloft, radiating illusionary flame in a manner he clearly considered tasteful.
“Chaos. Essence distilled. Entropy with a cork.”
He gestured to the world below: a blackened glade deep in the forest, where scorched roots curled upward like guilty fingers. The clearing pulsed with residual heat. Trees leaned away from the center, as if the land itself were trying to ghost a guest. A boulder melted quietly in the corner.
Zorko didn’t look down. He was too busy commanding the air.
“Some would say it is unwise to attempt containment of volatile relics in such... energetically expressive locales.”
The slab groaned again. Zorko stomped once to silence it.
“I say: this is the only place. For what better laboratory than one already seasoned with trauma?”
He twirled the feather. Sparks spiraled upward, forming a symbol that resembled either a warding rune or a startled squirrel.
“This floating platform, my appraisal chamber, is anchored via quadruple glyph suspension and spirit-jointed hover stones. That means it can withstand up to”—he checked a rune on his sleeve—“2.5 magical catastrophes per minute.”
A fox made of molten glass trotted through the underbrush below, trailing steam. It paused, looked directly at the hovering orb beside Zorko, and yawned. Several birds fell from a nearby tree.
Zorko stepped sideways to avoid eye contact with the fox.
“Now,” he continued, “the item we appraise today is no bauble. No trinket. No regrettable family heirloom filled with ancestral bees.”
He lowered his voice to a reverent hush.
“This... is a Demon. In. A Bottle.”
He let the words hang.
Nothing happened.
A leaf burst into flame somewhere in the distance.
Zorko turned to the orb, his voice a whisper of promise.
“I have prepared a complete counter-chaos containment grid. Runes of stability. Echo wards. A small crystal that glows when something gets weird. We are ready.”
The slab tilted slightly to the left.
Zorko corrected with a theatrical spin, ending in a bow that nearly became a pratfall but didn’t—through sheer force of will.
“My guest arrives soon.”
A low squelch echoed from beneath the platform.
Zorko ignored it.
“She is known across ley-lines. Whispered about in hex chains. Occasionally cited in lawsuits. A creature of flair, unpredictability, and sulfur-scented charisma.”
He raised the feather. A burst of pink fire shot upward, forming a question mark before dissolving.
“Miyo of the Wood. Bringer of bottled demons. Enthusiast of irreversible decisions. And, depending on the weather, chaos mage extraordinaire.”
The wind held its breath.
The platform sighed.
Zorko squared his shoulders.
“And thus, the stage is set. The circle is drawn. The trap, metaphorically, is baited.”
He straightened a strip of melted rune tape on the slab’s edge.
“I have complete and total control of this situation.”
A single buttercup nearby burst into flame.
Zorko did not flinch. He turned to the orb and nodded.
“Let the appraisal... begin.”
A breeze passed through the scorched glade. A shadow unfurled above the trees—a blackened stone slab descending with opinionated tilt.
Atop it sat Miyo of the Wood.
She lounged cross-legged, robes layered in scorched linen and glowing thread. A lava-cat draped across her shoulders blinked in mismatched directions. From her satchel, she pulled a crystalline bottle pulsing with magenta light that looked sarcastic.
Zorko stiffened.
“That,” he whispered, “is a vessel of intention. A prison of potential. A possibly cursed decanter of destiny.”
“It’s kind of funny if you shake it,” Miyo said.
She shook it. The light changed color.
Zorko recoiled, then recovered with academic flair.
“Ah! Kinetic-responsive. High-grade enchantment, clearly reacting to external metaphor.”
“It burps sometimes too.”
Zorko turned to the orb. “Expected.”
The bottle pulsed. Miyo handed it over.
Zorko took it reverently. A hum vibrated through the air. Miyo floated beside him, her platform holding just enough distance for plausible deniability. The space between them shimmered like opposing magnets forced to collaborate.
Zorko studied the bottle.
“Curious. The glass is impossibly smooth… and yet I feel like it’s judging me.”
“It is,” Miyo said.
Zorko leaned in. The light blinked. Just once. Slowly.
“Has it ever escaped?”
“Nope,” Miyo replied. “Not all the way.”
Zorko turned to the orb.
“We are in possession of a sentient containment vessel. Origin unknown. Motivation unclear. Bubbling with metaphysical sarcasm.”
The bottle gave a soft pop.
“That was either pressure equalization or a threat.”
He pulled out a tuning fork. Struck it. Held it near the bottle.
It answered with a sad plink.
“That’s... unorthodox.”
“It does that.”
He tried a rotating crystal lens.
He peered in. Froze.
“It winked.”
He cast an illusion spiral. The magic collapsed. A light-formed bird flipped him off and vanished.
Zorko was silent.
“That is not standard behavior.”
Miyo fed her lava-cat something that hissed.
“The bottle mocks structure. Rejects order. It’s playing games.”
“You’re catching on,” Miyo said.
The lava-cat meowed. The sound reversed.
Zorko raised the phoenix feather and traced a wide loop in the air. Ash scattered. The loop caught fire, burned bright for one breath, then collapsed inward with a sharp pop of paprika.
From the smoke emerged Uvlius—spectral, hovering, his spectacles tilted like they’d seen too much.
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He blinked at Zorko. Then at the bottle.
“It’s not a bottle,” he said. “It is the demon.”
“Sentient?”
“Probably.”
“Useful?”
“To whom?”
Zorko blinked. The bottle pulsed.
Uvlius faded, leaving a final line:
“Don’t let it choose you.”
The bottle blinked. Twice.
Zorko, gently placing it down: “It winked again.”
His feather dimmed but remained upright.
“Final appraisal: zero gold in resale, nine thousand in emotional eeriness, and one memory you haven’t had yet, already missing you.”
The bottle pulsed gently.
“Did it just... smile?”
“Hard to say,” Miyo said. “It doesn’t have a mouth. Usually.”
He declared it a relic beyond classification.
The bottle chimed. Not a sound, but the idea of one.
Miyo walked over. Patted it.
“Be good,” she said.
It vanished.
“Better than I thought,” Zorko muttered.
“No one got possessed.”
“That we know of.”
Miyo smiled. Stepped into the air. Gone.
Zorko turned to the orb, robes scorched, feather smudged, voice flat:
“I am absolutely going to need a second opinion.”
The orb dimmed in agreement.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Pledge That Roared
“Welcome,” Zorko began, his voice soaring above the clang of hammers and the hiss of enchanted steam, “to a place where metal remembers its star-born origin, and enchantments cling to soot like stubborn regrets.”
He stood dramatically atop a half-melted anvil, phoenix feather held high, robes swaying with the thermals of the Foothills Forge Market. Around him, the chaos of smiths and spellmongers continued unabated. Molten rivulets hissed across rune-carved tiles, dwarf vendors argued over cursed alloys, and something in the distance howled like an offended bellows.
“The Foothills,” Zorko continued, “ancestral homeland of blacksmiths, rune-engravers, and artisanal flame hoarders. A place where hammers have names, and tongs hold grudges. And today, this crucible of fire and ambition shall host an appraisal most... combustive.”
He lowered his voice and leaned toward the orb.
“An object whispered about in the smokier corners of rumor. A pledge made, a bond broken. And if my sources are correct... a beast born of sunfire itself.”
He leapt (poorly) from the anvil, landing with the grace of a damp scroll. The orb followed as he marched toward a modest forge stall framed by heat-burnished sigils and three cursed spatulas hung like wind chimes.
There stood Corey. Short-cropped hair, oversized apron, soot-streaked and uncomfortable. At his feet lay a lion cub curled on a soot-stained blanket: gold-furred, warm-eyed, sleepy. The cub yawned, sneezed, and licked its paw.
Zorko halted.
“That's a cub.”
“Yep,” Corey said.
“A lion cub.”
“Still yep.”
“And this was... pawned?”
“Collateral,” Corey said. “Wizard took gold, never came back.”
Zorko turned to the orb.
“A forgotten creature. A flame-child unclaimed. A bond abandoned by its maker... yet blazing still. Viewers, we are in the presence of myth.”
The cub sneezed again. A tiny puff of smoke. Zorko gasped.
“Tell me, young forge-wanderer. What is its true name?”
“Triad,” Corey said.
Zorko froze.
“...Triad?”
Corey nodded. “He knocked over three jars.”
Zorko stared at the cub like it had blinked in iambic pentameter.
“You gave a singular being a name invoking holy numeric convergence. We're already inside the prophecy.”
Triad licked his paw again.
“Let us begin,” Zorko said, “before this being awakens fully... and re-ignites the heavens.”
Zorko crouched beside Triad, feather raised.
“Let us begin with the tale,” he said. “Before this slumbering solar entity decides the market is redundant.”
“Wizard left him,” Corey said nearby. “Said he’d come back. Never did.”
“Abandonment of a sun-born beast,” Zorko whispered. “A breach of sacred contract.”
Triad yawned, stretched, and knocked over a glowing nail.
“And how long have you had him?”
“Eight years.”
Zorko froze.
“That's not a cub. That's an epoch.”
“He still fits under the anvil when he naps.”
“Dormant. Slumbering. Encased in chronological denial.”
Zorko reached out. Triad exhaled sharply. Zorko flinched.
“Feedback noted,” he muttered. “Temperament volatile. Possibly sacred. Definitely flammable.”
“He thinks you're giving him a bath,” Corey added.
Zorko stood. “Initiating diagnostic charm.”
He traced a glowing circle in the air. Glyphs spun to life.
Triad perked up, sniffed, and sneezed.
“Entirely expected,” Zorko said.
Triad sneezed again. The charm shimmered.
“Is that bluebell smoke?” Corey asked.
“Arcane flora,” Zorko insisted.
“Bluebell makes him sneeze.”
Triad launched a final sneeze that shattered the glyph ring. A burst of smoke and magic disrupted the aisle. A vendor screamed about his beard. Spatulas flew.
Zorko stumbled behind a crate.
“This appraisal has entered a volatile phase!”
Corey handed him a towel.
“He thinks it smells like bath time.”
Zorko sighed. “This requires context.”
He drew an arc. Ash swirled. Smoke snapped.
With a burst of paprika-smoke, Uvlius appeared.
“You again,” Uvlius said.
“This creature resists classification! Possibly Ro'Amun reborn!”
Uvlius glanced at Triad.
“That's a lion.”
“Metaphorically?”
“No.”
Triad licked his paw.
“He disrupted a diagnostic ring!”
“You used bluebell. It's bath-scented.”
“But his name is Triad!”
“Because he knocked over three jars.”
Zorko blinked.
“He was pledged! There are debts!”
“So was I once. Doesn't mean someone owns me.”
“He's yours?” Uvlius asked.
“He stayed. I stayed. That became enough,” Corey said.
Uvlius turned to leave.
“Tell your paperwork to deal with it. He also thinks your feather is food.”
Zorko looked down. Triad was chewing it gently.
Zorko stood beside Triad. His robes singed, his dignity crumpled. The phoenix feather was slightly damp.
Triad yawned again.
Zorko faced the orb.
“Viewers, we have not merely appraised an object. We have encountered a paradox wrapped in fur, bound by debt, and flavored with existential flame.”
Corey scratched Triad behind the ears.
“This is a bond. A contract unwritten. A legacy shaped not by spell, but by time.”
“So... do I get a certificate?”
“No. Forms. And my envy.”
Triad snored.
“Final appraisal: zero gold. One hundred spell resistance. Four thousand emotional resonance. Incalculable in companionship.”
He raised the feather.
“Thus concludes this episode of Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals. Where not all treasures can be weighed... and some prefer to chew on the scales.”
He bowed. Triad yawned and knocked over a glowing bucket.
Zorko didn’t flinch.
“Let it fall,” he whispered. “The fire has chosen.”
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
