Murlin the “Magician” - Story
As the gang adventured through the Verdant Continent, unbeknownst to them, one small yet adventurous man was tracking them down. He’d arrived in Wyrmsgard, where he decided to wait for his brother Brogan to show up. His name, Murlin.
You’ve always known, deep in your bones, that you’re a true wizard. How could you not be? You were born into the illustrious Stone-Flask family, seven generations of magicians whose magic has benefited the settlements of the Burning Expanse since The Coalescence. The arcane flows through your veins just as surely as blood.
It’s just that your magic manifests… differently.
While your cousins could summon dancing flames with a flick of their wrists by the age of six, your power has always been more subtle, more complex. It requires preparation, components, careful study. When you mix the crimson powder with the crushed beetle shells and it creates a magnificent explosion of light and sound—that’s your magic finding its own unique expression—that’s your magic working through tools of your own brilliant design. The fact that anyone else might call these “contraptions” or “tricks” is merely evidence of their limited understanding of the arcane arts.
The others don’t understand. They never have. “He’s just playing with toys,” they’d whisper in the courtyards. “Poor Stone-Flask boy, born without the gift.” Your father would pat your head with that familiar mixture of disappointment and resignation. Your mother would defend you, but even she would sigh when she thought you couldn’t hear. “He’ll find another path,” she’d tell visitors. “Not everyone can be a magician.”
But they were wrong. You ARE a magician—just one who channels magic differently. And your dear friend, Morgan A, sweet Morgan A, was the only one who ever truly saw your brilliance.
”Do the fire trick again!” Morgan A would shout, eyes wide with wonder as you “cast” your spell. Morgan A never questioned whether it was “real” magic. Morgan A saw the results, and that was enough. It didn’t matter that no one else could see Morgan A appreciating your talents—they simply weren’t looking hard enough.
You remember the day you and Morgan A found that dog-eared copy of “The Chronicles of Merlin the Mystic.” How you both stayed up three nights straight, entranced by tales of the greatest wizard who ever lived. “That’s you someday,” Morgan A said, pointing to the illustration of Merlin raising a fallen knight from death’s clutches. “Murlin the Magnificent, Murlin with an M”
And that’s when you decided to rename yourself. Murlin. A wizard worthy of legend.
Then came that terrible day when Morgan A fell ill with that mysterious magical sickness. A sickness that, strangely, no one else could see. The healers claimed Morgan A was perfectly fine, that you were imagining things, but you knew better. You watched helplessly as your best friend faded away, seemingly visible only to you in those final moments.
The villagers whispered it was “that Stone-Flask boy and his imaginary friend again.” Your father looked at you with something worse than anger—pity. As if this confirmed what he’d always suspected.
But in your grief, in your darkest moment, you found purpose. Clarity. Upon rereading the Chronicles of Merlin the Mystic, you found solace in a chapter you’d never really thought much of, a chapter called, the day I saw the dead rise again. After reading it over and over, you thought, If Merlin the Mystic could restore life, so could you. There must be a spell, a ritual, some arcane secret that would bring Morgan A back. And you would find it, master it, perform it—no matter how many years it took, no matter how far you had to journey. If you could just find the right spell, sweet Morgan A would return and everyone would finally have to acknowledge both your friend and your magical prowess.
You began studying resurrection magic obsessively. Every ancient text, every obscure reference. The secret was out there. Meanwhile, you continued perfecting your “spells”—with each new spell, you felt yourself growing more powerful, getting closer to the wizard you were meant to be, even if the components for your spells could technically be purchased at any general store.
Then mother fell ill. The same ashborne lung sickness that claims so many in the Burning Expanse. With father gone, there was no one else to care for her. You stayed, brewing healing concoctions that eased her suffering (or at least seemed to—the physician insisted it was the conventional medicines he prescribed that were helping), all while feeling the pull of your greater quest. Your carefully crafted medicines helped, but you knew she needed consistent care—care that would keep you tied to home when the resurrection ritual could be out there waiting to be discovered.
And then you remembered, your brother Brogan, who had left the Burning Expanse decades ago after that fierce argument with father. Mother would occasionally speak of him with a soft fondness in her voice. “He had his own way of doing things,” she’d say. “Like you, my little magician. I wonder where he is in the world.” Soon after some careful mapping, you realised he must be in the Verdant Continent.
When a traveling healer offered temporary relief for your mother, you seized the opportunity. Your quest for the resurrection spell couldn’t wait any longer. You gathered your spell components, your magical devices, your journals full of research, and booked passage to the Verdant Continent.
After a long voyage east through the crimson sea, you somehow found yourself standing on the docks of Wyvern’s Port, breathing air heavy with, instead of the usual ash, an unfamiliar moisture. You felt that familiar tingling in your fingertips that always signalled powerful magic nearby (or possibly just the change in climate). In awe of the occasional dragon flying overhead, you made your way up the northern dragon lift and to the nearest tavern in this here city, Wyrmsgard.
And that’s when you heard it. A group of men from a small nearby town called Kalskog, talking excitedly about the heroes who allegedly saved their town from destruction. “One of them was a dwarf,” an old drunkard says, “crafty fellow, with some magic spices, Called himself Brogan, I shared a mug of Skogmead with him.”
Your heart nearly stopped. Brogan. Your brother.
You asked the man where the heroes he is talking of are now, trying to keep your voice steady.
”Fuck knows,” the drunkard replied.
But that was enough for you. The solution crystallized in your mind with perfect clarity. You’d stay right here in Wyrmsgard. You’d wait for Brogan, he’s bound to come, you knew it. You’d convince him to return home and care for mother while you’d embark on your quest for the resurrection spell. It was perfect—he owed the family that much after all these years away, and you’d carried the burden alone long enough.
And so you settled into Wyrmsgard, finding odd jobs here and there to make enough coin to live off of. After all you only needed enough to last you until Brogan showed up. And finally, the day has arrived Murlin R. After shaking on another odd job with a local creature merchant, you sat on what had become one of your favourite spots in Wyrmsgard, the southern cliff face. A pure white dragon flew over your head. And then, you saw them, walking the ridge, a group of travellers. One of them, a dwarf, your brother, Brogan. And so, you rushed to the top of the southern dragon lift, ecstatic, excited to tell him of his new fate, and to finally begin your adventure.
Our story continues in Chapter 10.2 - Enter! Wyrmsgard!…