Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
Through the Flame, Returned
"Welcome," Zorko declared, his voice carrying the cadence of a midwoven spell.
The orb hovered in place beside him, humming faintly as it recorded the vast stone chamber.
A chirp meant uncertainty. Flickers signaled shifts in focus. A steady pulse, acknowledgment.
"To a vault where some pass through shadow, and return alight," he continued, his robes rustling as he paced an intricate spiral on the floor. "Where flame remembers what flesh forgets, and echoes of lost selves flicker unseen."
The chamber was cold, the stones beneath his feet slick with ancient frost. No hearth, no light but the orb’s soft glow and faintly glimmering runes along the arched ceiling. The air itself hung expectant, as though awaiting the next page of a forgotten ritual.
Zorko’s phoenix feather swept upward.
"It is said," he intoned, "that there exist flames which burn not for heat, nor hunger, nor war, but for… change."
He paused dramatically.
"And yet, to chase such tales is the folly of poets and fools."
The orb chirped, once, uncertain.
Zorko smirked.
"Yes, yes, we record nonetheless." He gestured wide. "For today, an artifact arrives. I am told it is… singular. Contained. A flame in a cage, perhaps?"
He tilted his head.
"We shall see. I have appraised stranger things."
He drifted toward the rune-carved threshold of the chamber. Frost gathered in delicate patterns across its arch. A low resonance began, thin as a whisper, as if the room itself sensed an arrival.
Zorko’s eyes brightened. The feather stilled.
"It seems… the guest approaches."
The orb flickered.
Zorko turned to face the door, arms wide.
"Come, then. Let us see what shadow walks with you."
The resonance deepened. A faint rhythm, not quite sound, thrummed beneath the floor.
Frost swirled past the threshold. Then, through the arch, Oberon of the Tundra entered.
Short of stature, broad of shoulder, wrapped in a heavy frost-lined coat. His pointed crimson hat seemed untouched by age or ash. One eye gleamed beneath the brim. The other, a dark iron socket ringed with old runes.
In one hand, he carried a blackened iron cradle. Within it, a flame, golden at the core, fringed with violet light, hovering above a faceted stone base.
In the other hand, or perhaps hovering of its own accord, a great severed eye, blood-dark veins trailing into faint air. It drifted just above his palm, slowly rotating, pupil wide and unblinking.
The Eye shifted toward him.
Zorko blinked, instinctively lifting his feather.
"Ah, a flame in a cage! A curious bauble indeed."
The Eye tilted.
Zorko hesitated. His feather twitched.
"...and... company."
Oberon spoke quietly, voice deep with frost-roughened weight.
"Not caged. Witnessed."
He advanced toward the pedestal. The orb flickered, sensing the shift.
Zorko followed, gaze darting between the Flame, the Eye, the man.
"You carry bold curiosities."
Oberon said nothing. He set the iron cradle down with deliberate hands. The Sacred Flame hovered, perfectly still. No flicker, no smoke. The cold in the room deepened.
Zorko took an instinctive step forward, then paused.
"Such… precision. It does not dance."
A nervous laugh.
"You’ve brought me an obedient flame?"
Oberon rested both hands on the cradle’s edge.
"It knows me."
Zorko’s feather dipped. His voice softened.
"It… knows you."
Oberon nodded once. The Eye drifted lower, casting faint red light across the stone.
The orb hummed, uncertain.
Zorko cleared his throat. The bravado in his tone faltered.
"Well then, I must… inquire. What is this flame? What vessel? What rite?"
Oberon looked to the Flame.
"I have walked with this flame."
He let the words settle. Then,
"I have returned."
Zorko blinked rapidly.
"...Returned?"
Oberon’s gaze remained steady.
"From the Great Burning."
The chamber seemed to still. Even the faint frost on the stones ceased drifting.
Zorko’s mouth opened, then closed. His feather quivered.
The orb flickered twice, sharp and bright.
For the first time in many appraisals, Zorko had no ready metaphor. Still, by instinct or by habit, he pressed on.
"Well then," he began, voice pitched high with renewed ceremony, "it is the rarest appraiser who balks at a challenge. And this, dear viewers," he gestured to the orb, "is surely a flame worthy of myth."
He paced a short arc around the pedestal.
"A relic of transformation. A sovereign fire of impossible provenance."
He pointed.
"If this flame can renew a soul, if it can unmake and remake, what value might one assign?"
The orb flickered once.
Zorko’s eyes glittered.
"Seven hundred thousand gold in ritual potency." He hesitated, voice more uncertain. "No, more. Consider its rarity."
He circled wider. His words gained speed.
"But if it may grant passage to realms unseen, perhaps a million, or two. And what if," he pivoted, feather stabbing the air, "what if it could return that which was lost?"
The Eye shifted, unblinking.
Zorko faltered mid-step. The Eye’s gaze seemed to pin him in place. He swallowed, voice dropping, though the flourish in his tone was now a mask more than conviction.
"...Or if it could undo regret itself?"
The orb flickered again, slower now.
Oberon spoke, low and calm.
"You cannot buy the passing."
Zorko turned, feather lowering.
"But you passed through."
Oberon nodded.
"I did."
Zorko’s gaze darted between the Flame and its bearer.
"And... you returned whole?"
Oberon’s one eye met his.
"Changed." A quiet pause. "Returned."
The Eye shifted, focused.
Zorko’s words caught in his throat. He exhaled shakily.
"It is not an artifact," he whispered. "It is… a rite."
Oberon inclined his head.
"And a choice."
A subtle shift in the orb’s glow, a pulse, slow and questioning.
Footsteps echoed softly from the threshold.
Zorko looked up. Uvlius stood there, breath caught. For once, no ledgers and no scrolls in hand. A legend he had only read of, never thought to witness.
His eyes locked on the Flame.
"Is it truly..." his voice quieter than Zorko had ever heard, "...one of the Great Burning?"
Oberon answered with no flourish.
"It is."
Uvlius stepped in, gaze fixed, words careful.
"I must... examine this. Closely."
Zorko blinked, watching him with surprise. A softer note entered his voice.
"Well then," he murmured, "it seems we are all students today."
The orb pulsed once, deep and deliberate.
Oberon placed both hands lightly on the pedestal’s edge. His gaze held the Flame. His voice was even.
"Passing through strips all certainty."
The words hung in the chilled air.
"No one returns unchanged," he continued. "Most do not return at all."
Zorko’s feather trembled faintly in his grasp, but he said nothing.
Oberon’s eye remained steady.
"I do not remember all that was burned."
A breath.
"Nor all that was forged."
The Flame pulsed, slow and in rhythm with Oberon’s breath.
The orb flickered in a long, steady rhythm, not recording, but acknowledging.
Uvlius watched intently.
"It responds to you."
Oberon nodded.
"Once touched, you are never untouched."
A steady pulse followed.
Uvlius spoke, voice low but clear.
"Would you... choose to face it again?"
Oberon answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
Silence held the chamber.
Oberon’s unwavering "Yes" still seemed to ring in the air, louder than any spell.
The Sacred Flame pulsed once, deliberate and slow. The light did not dance now. It abided.
The orb flickered in long, steady rhythm, not recording, but acknowledging.
Zorko exhaled, stepping back. His feather lowered without flourish. His voice, when it came, was softer than the Flame itself.
"This is no relic. No prize. No possession."
He drew a breath, gaze never leaving the Flame.
"Final appraisal: uncountable in gold, inestimable in meaning, and beyond all keeping."
The orb answered with a single pulse. No chirp. No flicker. Only presence.
Zorko, by habit, began the gesture for closure.
He was stopped.
Uvlius, who had stood silent through the last exchange, now spoke, voice low, almost reverent.
"I would remain."
Zorko blinked. Met his gaze.
"Of course."
Uvlius turned to Oberon. Took a step closer, movements precise. For the first time, the scholar of the Belfry seemed almost earnest.
He inclined his head.
"When you first saw the Shadow..."
Oberon answered without hesitation.
"It was not shadow."
"It was choice."
The rest of their words did not reach the orb. They were for them alone.
Zorko, understanding this, returned to his familiar role.
He faced the orb, voice now a soft echo.
"And thus concludes today’s appraisal."
A pause. The weight of the chamber lingered.
At last, with a faint, practiced smile, Zorko added,
"Tomorrow... perhaps something more fleeting."
The orb gave one final, steady pulse.
Complete.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Book That Refused to Lie
"Welcome," Zorko whispered, his voice carrying lightly across stone and time, "to the ruin of a stage that never finished its final act."
He stood in the broken center of an ancient amphitheater. The air hung still. The light above was gray and slow, like the sun had paused to listen. Marble seating, cracked and overgrown, curved behind him like the jaws of a sleeping beast.
He turned slowly toward the orb, the phoenix feather raised like a conductor’s baton.
"Today’s appraisal is a private thing. Quiet. Slow to reveal. We are not here to measure gold or power, but to open... carefully."
His voice lowered, almost reverent.
"Some relics whisper. Some sigh. And some... remain unfinished. Not because they are broken, but because they are waiting."
He stepped aside to reveal the pedestal behind him. A flat slab of moss-lined stone. Upon it: nothing. Yet.
Zorko held his feather like a sword.
"A traveler comes. One with no title. No court. No sponsor. A wizard still early in his unfolding."
A breath of wind stirred the ivy above. Far off, something shifted—soft boots on marble steps.
Zorko closed his eyes.
"Their book has no name. Their path, no script. But still... they arrive."
From the back of the stage, a figure emerged.
He was perhaps in his early twenties. His tunic was clean, the colors chosen carefully. Not flashy; steady. He walked with confidence, but not mastery. This was someone used to surviving, not yet used to being seen.
A clothbound book rested in his hands, bound in twine. He held it with care—not reverence, but something close.
Zorko inclined his head.
"A book. Untitled. Unsorted. Unproven."
The young wizard nodded. "It came to me in pieces," he said, voice quiet but even. "It’s starting to open. I don’t know what it is yet."
Zorko studied him. Not just the book. The posture. The weight behind the eyes.
"Few ever do," he murmured. "Place it."
The wizard stepped forward and laid the book gently on the pedestal. The orb zoomed close. Faded leather, worn edges, no visible title. The faintest shimmer moved under the cover, like heat off stone.
Zorko circled once, robes whispering.
"No title. No wards. No page numbering. A bold design choice."
The guest didn’t reply. Just watched.
Zorko turned to the orb, one eyebrow raised in ceremonial gravity.
"And now... we begin."
The pedestal felt older now.
As the orb hovered, the clothbound book seemed to pulse faintly in the filtered daylight. No glow, no aura, just the quiet suggestion of something deeper inside shifting ever so slightly toward wakefulness.
Zorko stood beside it, arms crossed, staring with theatrical suspicion.
He didn’t touch it yet.
Not this time.
"Curious," he said, pacing slowly. "No locking rune. No curse matrix. Not even a petty hex to keep the casual reader confused and mildly haunted. Disrespectful."
The guest remained still, hands folded behind his back. “It opens sometimes,” he said. “But only to me. Not always. Not fully.”
Zorko whipped around, face lit with sudden delight. "Oho! A relational grimoire! A temperamental codex! Perhaps it likes secrets more than spells."
He peered close. Very close. The orb followed.
Zorko slowly opened the book.
The first page was blank.
So was the second.
The third held three hand-drawn sigils, each annotated in small, tight handwriting. Half-rune, half-observation.
The fourth contained a short incantation labeled “Partial Fire Loop – unstable after line 6.” Line 6 was heavily crossed out.
Zorko gasped as if struck. He held the book up like it might bite him.
"Unfinished spells? In this economy?"
The guest winced slightly. "I’m still working on it."
Zorko waved the phoenix feather in a dramatic horizontal arc. "No, no, no. This isn’t incompetence. This is narrative tension!"
He flipped to another page. A simple list:
Vine ash Lunar chalk Left shoe Mirror, but cracked
Zorko blinked.
"Is this a spell or a scavenger hunt?"
The guest squinted. "I think those are... lunch instructions. Possibly."
Zorko snapped the book shut and staggered backward one step like the text had barked at him.
"No. No, no. I see it now. It’s obvious."
He turned toward the orb, gesturing with both feather and flair.
"This is not a beginner’s spellbook. This is a... tragic romantic ledger of a forgotten astral courtship! A diary encrypted by grief! A love story scrawled in metaphor and moonlight!"
The guest stared at him, caught between politeness and confusion. "It’s not."
Zorko held up one hand. "Let me finish."
He reopened the book dramatically, flipping to a page with five symbols arranged in a star.
"This page is clearly a soul-map! The five sigils represent heartbreak, passion, loss, second loss, and rebounding through ill-considered astral projection."
He tapped a corner. "This symbol alone is weeping."
The guest leaned closer. "That’s... a binding loop for thermal stabilization."
"Exactly," Zorko said solemnly. "Thermal. As in heat. As in passion. As in... metaphor."
The orb zoomed tighter on the open page. The ink shimmered faintly, not glowing, but remembering something.
Zorko shut the book with a reverent snap and placed it gently back on the pedestal.
"A book that does not yet know its own name," he whispered. "A dangerous and delicious thing."
The guest glanced down at the cover again. The symbol stitched there looked different under this light. Slightly deeper. Slightly older.
He didn’t recognize it.
Not yet.
The orb dimmed slightly.
Not malfunctioning. Just listening.
The pedestal stood quiet, the book at its center like a closed eye. Still and waiting. Zorko stepped back with theatrical reverence, arms crossed, face solemn, as if he had just presided over a funeral or the premiere of a one-wizard play.
He drew breath to speak again—
—but before he could, with no flash, no fanfare, and no sound except the faint scrape of sandals on stone, Uvlius entered from stage left.
The cloud of appraisal mist had barely begun to form when he waved it away with a deliberate hand. It dissipated, respectfully.
He approached the book.
Stopped.
Tilted his head.
And said nothing.
Zorko turned toward him with a wide, anticipatory grin. "Ah! Uvlius of the Belfry arrives to cast judgment upon the unfinished romance! Tell me, have you ever seen such a lonely little ledger?"
Uvlius didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he studied the book.
Not with suspicion.
With recognition.
Not fully.
But flickering.
He opened it. Just once, just slightly. His finger traced the edge of a page that held nothing but a sketched rune labeled [try again].
He closed it.
Then looked to the guest.
"You’ve had it long?" he asked.
The young wizard nodded. “A few months. It started opening after the second moon passed.”
“Responds to you?”
“Some of it.”
Uvlius nodded once.
Then he turned to Zorko.
"This book isn’t cursed. And it’s not romantic."
Zorko gasped. “But the emotional arc—”
"It’s not finished," Uvlius said plainly. "Because he isn’t."
He looked back to the guest. The tone of his voice didn’t change, but something about it softened. Just slightly.
"This is a Book of Magic," he said. “Not the kind they hand out at universities. The kind that builds itself. Slowly. Quietly. In pieces.”
He paused.
"Every time you fail a spell, it watches. Every time you retry, it listens."
Zorko was unusually quiet.
Uvlius closed the book fully and placed a single hand on its cover.
"It’s not locked. It’s just waiting for the right questions."
He turned to go, then stopped. Looked the guest over again.
"What’s your name?"
The guest hesitated, as if unsure it mattered. Then quietly:
"Uvlius."
A long beat.
Uvlius the Elder gave the faintest smile. Not a grin. Not pride. Just memory flickering.
“Of course it is.”
A nod. Just once.
"You’re doing fine."
Then he turned and walked away, robes swaying gently as he went.
Zorko stood perfectly still.
Not frozen. Just choosing not to move.
The book sat on the pedestal, the faint rune on its corner already fading, like it had only wanted to be seen for a moment and no more. The guest stepped closer. Not to pick it up, but simply to be near it.
Zorko turned to the orb.
His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.
"This was never a cursed tome. Nor a lovesick grimoire. Nor a haunted pamphlet of forbidden yearning. Though, in fairness, I was very convincing about that theory."
He looked back to the book.
"It is what I said from the beginning, only I didn’t know I meant it."
He paced once around the pedestal, slower than before.
"A book that refused to lie. That said: I’m not ready yet. But I will be."
The guest looked at him. Zorko met the gaze and gave the smallest nod of respect. Not dramatic, not ironic. Just real.
"And I think..." Zorko continued, “that is the rarest kind of magic. A spellbook that only writes truth. Even when that truth is silence."
He turned again to the orb, phoenix feather lowered like a flag at dusk.
"Final appraisal: No resale value. No enchantment rating. No university seal."
He smiled.
"But infinite worth. Not in what it holds. In who it’s waiting for."
The guest stepped forward and picked up the book.
It just felt... right.
They turned to leave.
Zorko gave a low, theatrical bow, but said nothing else.
The guest paused once at the far edge of the amphitheater. Looked back.
Zorko raised the feather in quiet salute.
Then the guest was gone.
Only the wind remained. And the orb, watching.
Zorko exhaled slowly.
"Some books you read," he said. "Some books read you. And some... wait until you’re both ready."
He stood in the center of the stone ruin, alone now.
The orb flickered once, a small pulse of stillness.
Then the moss beneath where the book had rested faded.
Gone.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
