It's Limpet time (break it down now)

Hello, my minions, it is I, The Limpet! Bow before my great presence! Yeah!

OK, sorry I asked; be seated, my minions. If you're wondering why I just did that grandiose intro, the reason is this.... (four dot pause) The Limpet's making a comeback! Yes, it's that long awaited good/pretty good day I've been waiting for for all too long now, after the long succession of bad/diabolical days I've come to get used to.

As I stated in my previous post, I'm fed up with Barry the Gnome and his evil sandwich empire, despite only being a part of it for a few weeks. Yes, I foresee better times ahead, in which there should be no need to end up knee deep in entrails due to a blockage in meat reclamation. An end to pilchards!

Anyway, I went down to the library to try and find some fresh inspiration on the magical front. It wasn't one of those flash, city-ish libraries with all the fancy stuff, no, it was one of those small town, out of the way kind of libraries, where any enquiry is regarded as a deliberate attempt to spoil the great time the librarians were having previous to your arrival. By great time, I mean discussing the merits of various labelling systems in hushed tones, or something like that.

When I'd finally managed to sign up as a member, I made my way through the uncomfortable, dusty silences to the magical tomes section. I noticed the library copy of the Obsidian Tome was on the shelves, generally regarded as the most fundamental work on the subject of dark magic, the dark magic bible you might say. To tell you the truth, I personally could never get on with it. I'll never forgive it for coming up with such a silly name for me when I suck my finger into it to find the first word I came to, which is the supposed method that masterless dark mages have used to derive their name of power for several millennia. The innate arcane power of the text is supposed to help out the acolyte in this task, I think the thing had it in for me, what's worse, the section my finger alighted on told me that Limpets don't even have any practical magical use except the alleviation of that smell you get if you've been eating too much asparagus. Yes, hilarious, I'm sure. I can't help wishing there was a way of getting back at that book...

I had a quick look through the titles on offer.

"The dark testament of the Shadowed Monk" - no, that was a load of rubbish, that monk had been hitting the elderberry wine too much, as well as himself on the head if you asked me.

"101 practical summonings" - no, that was no use, never really cared for the idea of summoning, and recent experience had backed that conviction up.

"Teach yourself Diabolical Incantations" - yes, I'd had a copy of that in Zarfang - couldn't make head nor tail of the pronunciation guide. How the hell are you supposed to pronounce "Phzrzrshharggl" anyway, whether it's the name of some obscure ancient god or not?

"Ways and Signs of the Occluded Ones" - this looked promising, but when I opened it up, I found someone had written a whole load of obscene haikus all over the margins, personally I didn't know such a poetic style was even possible, plus it kind of ruined whole occult feel of the book.

In the end I settled on "Modern Sorcery of the Shadow, a revised approach", by Third Archon Zalgaris of Hagamandron, which sounded just the job. Maybe it had just been the teaching methods used in these old fashioned books that been the cause of my problems all along. Plus, this new one had FLOW DIAGRAMS, you can't get much better than that.

The afternoon found me lying on the bed, alternately reading the book and making increasingly awkward attempts at following the instructions. Curses! I thought it would work this time! The instructions said to focus your malign spirit into a point to create a miniature fireball. However, the liberal amount of straining I was engaging in led to nothing except a sudden and alarming internal sensation possibly indicating an impending hernia. Why does nothing ever seem to work? The desire to strangle Harry potter flitted disturbingly across my conciousness. I threw the book aside petulantly, thinking I'd give it a go later.

* * *

It was a normal day in the tea room at Barry the Gnome's sandwich manufactuary, if such a place could ever really be described as "normal". Nigel the Gnome was squinting and grimacing horribly at some unsavoury publication or other, thankfully I hadn't yet witnessed the contents of this one - the expressions on the face of the reader were enough to put me off the already questionable sandwich I was eating as I read through the library book once more.

You know, I never really thought I'd ever meet a young gnome. Funnily enough, I thought they always came pre-wizened with the archetypal bulbous nose and cunning, artificer type fingers. This one was youthful, usually slightly sweaty without any apparent reason and had an unhealthily public interest in adult magazines. Still, Nigel the Gnome's not so bad - he's got a good sense of humour and healthy dislike for the management (despite being some distant relation of Barry the Gnome) which helps the day pass quickly, by way of a bit of synchronised moaning.

Just then, Gorgrod the troll shambled his repugnant, pot-bellied form into the room. Just for your information, not all trolls are stupid, but I think this one was even before he took to heavy drinking about 40 years ago. He had a truly remarkable smell, almost a sickly, sweet sort of odour, probably caused by the fact that he had never been known on any occasion to have changed his shirt. One of the things I like to do to pass the time during my lunch break is to attempt a sane and sensible conversation with him, under no circumstances bursting out laughing during the attempt. This is harder than it sounds, and today's attempt looked doomed to failure based on Gorgrod's first line.

He slammed the door, shuffled over to the kettle and made himself a cup of coffee. Then, sitting down heavily, he said:

"I've lost me flip-flaps."

After a few internal convulsions, I attempted to reply.

"Umm, what exactly are 'flip-flaps?'"

"Flip-flaps!" he bellowed back, small eyes meeting mine with an expressionless intensity, like those of an Orang-Utan. "Flip-flaps, for feet. Goin' on holiday."

I thought for a moment.

"Do you mean flip-flops?"

The troll paused for a moment.

"Yes!"

Well, what witty and insightful repartee that was. Nigel put down his magazine.

"So, where're you going?" he asked.

Gorgrod held up a holiday brochure for him to see. Nigel's gnomish features assumed an expression of surprise.

"Blimey, that's a bit steep - that place? You must need your bloody head examined"

He was right there, that was long overdue. Gorgrod made an non-committal grunting noise. Doubtless the inside of the local bars was all he was likely to see.

"That's that place that bird off the them wossname films goes, isn't it?" Nigel continued, "You know, I heard when she goes in her hotel, she has to have fifty white lilies delivered fresh to her rooms every time, a special attendant just to hand her her towels and no less than seven different types of meat and a specialist masseur for her dog. What do you think of that, then?"

Gorgrod's face assumed an expression of disgust. He disliked all that was ostentatious intensely. He turned to me and grinned horribly, exposing green teeth arranged like tombstones after three hundred years of weathering and subsidence, a sly expression passing across his revolting countenance.

"I'd like to go in there," he said, "And have a good FART!"

That was too much for me, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. So that was operation "normal conversation" over for another day.

" 'Ere, what's that book?" said Nigel, who'd noticed the one I was reading.

"Oh, this?" I said. "Nothing, just a bit of a hobby of mine"

" 'Ere that's a dark magic book, that is, in't it? You been doing dark magic? I had an uncle what tried that, blew his eyebrows off, grew back the wrong way up. Didn't half look a pillock."

I figured I might as well tell him, it's not as if it really mattered.

"Well, I used to do a bit of it," I said, casually, "I wasn't any good, really. Used to have a tower, though."

Nigel the Gnome looked slightly impressed, which I found kind of gratifying.

"So what happened to your tower?" he said eagerly.

"Oh, well, some wizard came by and kicked me out of it. It's probably rubble by now."

Nigel looked disappointed.

"Well, if you ever get back into the magic business, give us a tinkle - I've got a mate who can do you some discount potion stuff, you know," he tapped his finger on his nose, "Fell off the back of a lorry, that sort of stuff, eh, eh?"

"Err, yeah, I'll bear it mind," I said, trying to sound vague and mysterious. Just then, the factory siren sounded, and it was time to fire up the offal boilers once again.

***

Later that evening, I was back at the flat, lying on my bed and once again trying to make sense of the book. The much vaunted flow diagrams didn't seem to make as much sense as I'd hoped. Then, out of the blue, there was a sudden snapping sound that made me nearly jump out of my skin, and who should have appeared, but Sir Henry the Brussels Sprout, standing there in his customary costume on the headboard of the bed.

"What ho!", he said, jovially. I think Nigel had a magazine called that, come to think of it.

"Not disturbing anything, am I? Just popped by to see how you were getting along!"

He looked around the room.

"I say, this isn't the same place as before, is it?"

"No, I've, err, moved." I replied, with the usual slight uncertainty I felt I really should maintain when addressing animated plant matter.

"What's that you've got there?", he said, spotting the book. "Dark magic? You know, my dear fellow, you really shouldn't be bothering with all that dark magic balderdash! I don't mean to be rude, but any fool could see you're not dark magic material."

Honestly, one moment he appears, the next moment, he's making out I'm useless! Plus, does anyone else think he's bizarrely over familiar? Just asking. Anyway, the feeling must have showed on my face.

"No, no, dear boy!" said Sir Henry floridly, jumping alarmingly to land on my shoulder. Coming into such close proximity with him was slightly disturbing, but he certainly seemed in an energetic mood, compared with the last time I'd seen him.

"No, no, dear boy" he said, "I don't mean that you couldn't be any good at magic at all! You must remember, I've read all the finest books on the subject of wizardry and the related arts, though it hasn't done me much good, I admit. No, what I'm saying is that you're barking up the wrong tree entirely. Haven't you ever considered following in your Great Uncle's footsteps?"

"Well, err, now you mention it, that's kind of the reason I wanted to be a dark wizard in the first place."

I spoke rather awkwardly, trying to keep my face away from the strange apparition perched so uncomfortably close. Sir Henry hopped from foot to foot excitedly.

"And didn't I tell you he was a wizard of the light?" he said.

"Well, yes, I suppose you did," I replied, "But I didn't really know that when I started out. My family weren't really into wizards, for some reason - they made out he was pretty bad, so I thought he'd have been a dark wizard. Plus, I always kind of liked the idea of dressing in black, living in a tower, riding around on dragons, that sort of thing...."

Sir Henry gave a contemptuous snort.

"What would your Great Uncle have said? Your aura is all wrong, you're not even vaguely vindictive enough to be able to cut the mustard. Why on earth haven't you ever thought of trying a bit of light magic?"

Hmm. The problem I'd always had with that is the whole image thing. "Dark Magic" - this gives the impression of heavy metal chords and thunderbolts, "Light Magic" this gives the image of someone prancing about in sky blue saying and things like, "the path to goodness lies in every human heart!". In short, even the name of it is a bit rubbish. "Still," I thought, "I suppose I've got nothing to loose."

"Well, OK, I'll give it a quick go. Can you show me what to do?"

"Of course, my boy, of course," boomed the sprout, hopping to the foot of the bed, his cape flapping behind him, "We'll soon find out if you've got the knack."

Sir Henry folded his arms, and assumed a lecturing tone.

"As you are, I'm sure, well aware, the most fundamental power of the light is to dispel the shadows of dark places. So therefore it follows that the most elementary light power is to summon physical light itself. All you have to do is close your eyes and feel the energy right down in the heart of your body, and very slowly and gradually tease it out along your arm and into the tip of your finger, where you focus it, eventually sparking a source of light."

"Oh." I said, not really thinking of anything much more intelligent than that. There was nothing else for it, I closed my eyes and gave it a go.

For a while, nothing at all seemed to be happening, but Sir Henry kept on making encouraging noises, so I thought I'd better keep on trying. After a while, I began to imagine what it might feel like if I actually did have some kind of inner force flowing from within, and all of a sudden it felt almost as if I had; like glowing spiral filaments of energy amidst deep black. I suddenly realised these glowing filaments were entirely following my invisible thoughts, though it was impossible to tell clearly if the thoughts were shaping the filaments, or the filaments the thoughts. Yes, OK, sorry if I'm getting a bit Luke Skywaker on yo ass, but it was a pretty (if vaguely) profound moment. I realised I could indeed draw the energy out into my arm, into my finger, and then....

I opened my eyes, to see Sir Henry's grinning face from the vantage point he'd resumed on the headboard. His face, and the entire room was lit by a brilliant, pure white light, and the light was, unbelievably, coming from a dazzling pinpoint of light at the end of my outstretched finger. At the sight of this, I was understandably overcome with excitement.

"I can't believe it," I said, breathlessly, staring at the incandescent mote of light, "I've actually done some magic!"

"There you go," said Sir Henry, proudly, "I told you it was worth a try, good show!"

My attention wavered, and the light flickered out, but it didn't matter. This called for some celebration!

1. Three times around the room shouting, "Woo!"
2. Knee slides with the occasional "Get in!"
3. Throwing open of window and bellowing stuff like "The Limpet had returned!" or "Look out world!"

Actually, rather disappointingly, the only person out in the street was a rather sour looking old beggar over the other side of the road, who only stared sullenly at me, despite my shouting "Yeah!" at him multiple times. I returned to my sproutish acquaintance.

"Will you teach me some more?" I asked him. "Preferably something involving lightning bolts this time?"

Sir Henry assumed a somewhat coy expression.

"Hmm, I might be persuaded to," he said. "Do you have any... liquor by any chance, hmm?"

"I've got half a bottle of whiskey somewhere," I said, and went to find it. Sir Henry, against all expectations for his size, was able to pick up the bottle. He stared at it for a short while, then said:

"See you later!" and promptly vanished. Was that all he had really come for?

Still, even the customary, inexplicable and altogether utterly unnecessary dire smell that heralded his passing couldn't dampen my spirits one bit.

THE LIMPET'S MAKING A COMEBACK.....