Whiston of Greenfields

Whiston was moments away from being hit by something—something big and feathery. Blissfully unaware, he continued along, oblivious to the man gliding on a giant eagle’s back, poised to unintentionally knock him face-first into a puddle of thick, muddy water. This was not to be Whiston’s day. But regardless of what awaited him—the near-drowning, the throbbing concussed head, and the blunt lack of apology—this mishap would mark the beginning of a journey legend would never forget.

“Left a bit, right a bit. Perfect,” the eagle rider commanded, guiding his magnificent bird’s trajectory as if setting a deadly crosshair on his unsuspecting target’s back. Still blissfully unaware below, Whiston was seconds away from being swept into an encounter that would be etched into his memory forever.

Fhil was an eagle-riding wizard who had spent considerable time selecting Whiston for an impossible task. To Fhil, Whiston was the ideal candidate—primed to be set into motion like a clockwork soldier, a pawn in a scheme bound for either death or glory, probably both. The wizard hoped it would lean toward the glory side for both their sakes. Yet even Fhil knew nobody could afford the luxury of control once Whiston embarked on this path.

Aiding Fhil’s arrival, a thunderstorm of near-biblical ferocity erupted the moment Whiston stepped outside his small wooden hut, unknowingly for the last time. Rain cascaded in relentless sheets from a sky smothered in dark, heavy clouds, reducing visibility to less than a metre for anyone caught in its misery. The storm’s wrath made intentional action almost impossible, and with the added breakneck speed of a giant eagle diving from above, a direct hit on a moving target would be a miracle—or a catastrophe—waiting to happen.

Yet, as often happens, the impossible happened, surprising everyone involved—everyone, that is, except the mighty bird of prey beneath Fhil. With an unerring instinct, the eagle had known all the while where his perfect dive would end, its flawless eyes steady and unfazed as it bore down on its target, cutting through the elements as if they were not there.

Whiston’s innocent stroll unfolded like a leisurely tale, adrift on the storm’s weighty murmurs, minding its quaint business but inching ever closer to its inevitable end—also known as sharp pain. The loud, rhythmic drumming of heavy raindrops striking the ground drowned out Fhil’s golden hum. He had hoped for a subtle approach from the shadows—a soft rear-end collision to greet Whiston. “A gentle nudge or kiss to say hello and sorry,” the wizard mused.

However, when a heavy, speeding object magically appears out of the stormy gloom, the laws of physics take precedence, and collision mechanics come into play. At the moment of impact, the principles of conservation of momentum had never enjoyed such a triumph. The force was enough to lift Whiston clean off his feet, propelling him forward until he landed with a splat in a freshly formed puddle of ice-cold muddy water.

Following the collision, the eagle landed with practised grace as if nothing had happened. This enabled its rider to dismount swiftly and begin managing the mishap—first giving a reassuring pat to Gerrard Fairfax, his magnificent bird of prey. Then, Fhil shifted his focus to his unfortunate target, face-planted into the muddy puddle like a plank of wood dropped from a great height.

“Now, what on earth are you doing down there?” Fhil asked flippantly, glancing at the stunned man with his face submerged in muddy water. His ears were blissfully unaware that someone was speaking at him.

Fhil grasped Whiston’s cloak with one hand, effortlessly hoisting him to his feet in a smooth, impressive motion. Whiston jolted back to consciousness, gasping for air like someone reanimated him after a bout of icy, muddy paralysis. A sharp first-degree brain freeze hit him, leaving him dazed momentarily.

“I said…, ‘What are you doing in that puddle?’ Did you not hear me?’’ Fhil’s voice dripped with condescension as he addressed the bewildered man, whose ears were delightfully unaware of noise and whose face was desperately trying to recover from his muddy experience.

Whiston staggered on the spot, dripping with muddy water, as he finally focused on what stood before him—a magnificently dressed wizard, immaculate in appearance. The concussed man struggled to make sense of the blurred figure speaking to him, but a sharp pain at the back of his head quickly demanded his attention. The eagle’s talon mark greeted him like an unwelcome acquaintance. As Whiston’s finger probed the area of pain, he discovered a patch of hair missing from the back of his head. Then, something else caught his eye. Gerrard Fairfax, the eagle, was happily toying with a new prize—a clump of blonde hair he had just acquired.

“Don’t worry about that,” Fhil grimaced, glancing at the tuft of hair in Gerrard Fairfax’s beak. “I’m sure it’ll grow back eventually.” Whiston continued to rub his bald spot, lamenting the loss of his favourite patch of hair. He looked at Fhil in despair, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Look, we have bigger fish to fry and work to do, so don’t worry about it,” Fhil began, his tone shifting to a monologue to try and snap Whiston out of his trance. “And when I say we, I do mean you. So listen up, Baldy.”

Fhil glanced at Whiston, who had developed doe eyes, embodying the saddest creature in the entire realm at that moment.

“Sorry about the ‘Baldy’, but come on…, we have work to do, so let’s chop-chop.”

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The setting was fit for a king, that is, if the king enjoyed the splendour of a prison cell, its air laced with damp stone, stale sweat, and the rank odour of stinking regret. At the cell’s centre rested a modest wooden table, set incongruously for two. But tonight, it bore witness to four—a weary wizard cloaked in crimson, two birds of formidable bearing, and an empty chair awaiting its occupant, sent abroad in search of sustenance fit for their peculiar court.

Two goblets stood between the chairs, filled with the realm’s richest vintage, their ruby depths casting a painful parody of grandeur across the bare stone. Fhil—who called himself, and made sure everyone else did too, the Red Wizard, Shaper of the Eternal Plane—covered one goblet with his self-centred grasp. His eyes, shadowed and restless, climbed the ceiling’s colourless expanse. He sat with a sour expression as his voice cracked into the silence.

“Where did it all go wrong?”

The smell of damp socks, unwashed ambition and the mute birds provided no answer. The latter drank shamelessly from the second goblet, their sharp beaks dipping and clinking like thieves too bold to bother with stealth. Before long, the wine had its way with them. They lurched and teetered, weaving in jagged arcs, their hollow cries sounding absurdly like a drunken quarrel—or worse, a duet. Before long, they parodied a dance, stuck in an endless loop, swaying from side to side and bobbing up and down. It looked comic and wrong.

Fhil’s frown faltered. Against the weight of his bitterness, a faint smile fought for purchase.

“Where did you learn that?” he murmured, the words tinged with wonder, as though the birds had stumbled upon a secret art—the delightful dance of fools that amused kings and wizards alike.

The endless waiting gnawed at Fhil—at his soul, and worse, at his patience. Against his will, his mind circled back to the chain of events that had led him here, to this unjust captivity. Only days earlier, he had crossed wands with the realm’s Archmage and Blue Wizard, Semony L’nicket, in a duel so violent it had all but erased the fifth floor of the Tower of Future Stars, Semony’s most treasured monument to himself. Fhil had won. And yet, in a rare fit of magnanimity, he had yielded the victory—an offering toward a greater, unspoken purpose. For the Red Wizard’s designs ran deeper than his pride. He sought allies to thwart a devastating hot, fiery apocalypse that threatened to consume the realm whole, a calamity that, left to its own devices, seemed unable to fix itself.

Semony’s support was crucial. Fhil needed help with administrative tasks, such as retrieving essential items, sending messages, or raising the occasional army or two. The priorities were piling up like unread scrolls on a cluttered desk. Securing the Archmage’s support, however, was proving impossible. And now he was stuck in this cell, a week gone, with options dwindling—either conjure an escape of dazzling ingenuity, or wait upon the mercy of his jailor, who happened to be none other than his erstwhile, ever-so-slightly deranged, long-time ally and friend, Semony L’nicket.

However, the Blue Wizard had troubles of his own. The Citadel of Anganon had charged him with two crimes of spectacular magnitude. First, the destruction of their beloved Royal Guard and second, the theft of their sacred flaming sword. For Semony, survival was the only priority. If Fhil—or indeed anyone—could serve as a scapegoat, then they would be offered up without hesitation. The apocalypse could burn the realm to cinders, and he could always find another self-proclaimed ‘Shaper of the Eternal Plane’. How hard could that be?

In Semony’s mind, the calculus was simple. The realm required an archmage with stature, flair, and an unorthodox imagination—without which, frankly, nothing useful would ever get done. If they demanded sacrifices, so be it. He would apologise later. And yet, for all his scheming, unease gnawed at the edges of his bravado. The justice of Anganon—ruthless, pitiless, and very likely fatal—was not something he intended to face.

Fhil was wrenched from his gloom by a curious spectacle. The two birds had invented a game. One bird would hop on a single leg, wobbling precariously until the other mirrored the movement. They repeated the contest with drunken solemnity, breaking into sharp squawks whenever one missed the beat.

“How quaint,” Fhil murmured, permitting himself a flicker of amusement before the inevitable return of Semony—no doubt bearing either fresh Anganon drivel or worse, more rich food.

The darkwing was Lucian Shade, Fhil’s own familiar, proud and imperious even in play. His companion was Charles Wince, Semony’s celebrated night bird, whose splendour was almost a provocation. He was an owl of impossible extravagance and unusually large for his kind.

Precariously perched atop his beak was a pair of small, somewhat cosmetic spectacles that perfectly complemented what he was wearing—a midnight blue velvet robe, its white lapels spangled with silver stars. His brown, chestnut, and cream feathers, artfully mottled, promised perfect camouflage, but his golden hum—a stunning ring of confidence—ruined the effect, making subtlety impossible.

Charles Wince did not dress for battle. He dressed to dazzle, making himself undeniably the most ostentatious familiar in the realm. His rounded head lacked the tufts of lesser owls, giving him an air of academic severity, and the spectacles, though little more than ornament, lent him a further ten per cent intelligence. And indeed, with a mind sharpened like a tack, he never tired of proving it.

“This is insufferable,” Fhil declared to no one in particular, dragging himself out of his own lament. “Intolerable—even by wizarding standards.”

He glanced down and chuckled despite himself. Semony’s goblet now lay utterly dry, and the two birds staggered across the tabletop like veterans of a tavern crawl, wings drooping, beaks snapping hungrily for something—anything—to stave off the hollow pangs of wine-induced hunger.

“Oops. A little too much merriment, eh?” Fhil said, eyes glinting at their shameless liberation. “No matter. He’ll be back soon enough with whatever feast he’s promised himself.”

As if conjured by words, the heavy clank of the lock split the silence. The door swung open, and in bustled Semony, panting beneath the weight of a brimming tray.

“Your favourite Archmage returns and with plenty,” he proclaimed, voice soft yet triumphant. “My apologies for the delay, but you will agree it was worth the wait.”

Fhil sniffed, unconvinced, while Semony set down two steaming plates and a modest bowl. The smell of the meal hit Fhil hard, rousing every dormant taste bud at once.

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The ‘God of Battles and Improbable Victories’ cast his gaze downward, sharp with interest and thinner with patience. What he saw did not please him.

He tutted softly as a Cryovore Balor repelled every strike brought against it. Around the monster surged an army of skilled adventurers—mostly human, all heroically brave, entirely outmatched—driven by the unshakable belief that determination alone might suffice.

It did not.

Wave after wave was broken upon the creature’s hide. Lives were risked with admirable enthusiasm and negligible effect. This was not an improbable victory. It was merely a defeat in slow motion.

Something would have to change—and fast…

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