Eldrin's Echoes

Professor Eldrin’s study was a testament to a life spent wrestling with the arcane, and perhaps, with his own mortality. Stacks of books, some bound in what looked suspiciously like dragon hide, teetered precariously, threatening to avalanche at any moment. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the gloom, illuminating shelves crammed with peculiar artifacts: a shriveled mandrake root that seemed to twitch with phantom life, a glass orb that swirled with perpetually grey mist, and a single, impossibly sharp quill resting on a dried inkwell. Boy, accustomed to the sterile, organized chaos of his own workshop, found himself strangely at ease amidst the scholarly detritus. He’d been summoned, as he often was, for reasons that usually involved Eldrin wanting to discuss something Boy hadn’t quite grasped, or perhaps, something Eldrin hadn’t quite explained. Today, the air felt heavier, the usual twinkle in the Professor’s eye replaced by a distant, troubled gaze.

“Sit, Boy,” Eldrin said, his voice a low rumble, as he gestured to a worn armchair that looked as though it had absorbed centuries of profound thought and a fair amount of spilled tea. Boy, ever the picture of casual indifference, sank into it, his legs stretching out as if he owned the place. Which, in a way, he probably did, in terms of raw magical potential.

“You’ve been… thinking,” Eldrin stated, rather than asked. He was polishing a small, obsidian amulet with a soft cloth, his movements slow and deliberate.