This particular Vjorla stone held the saving syllable of one Agust C. Cartwright. A not so noble hedge wizard fond of partaking in his own alchemical concoctions. Agust died when he mistook a Witchesbane for a Dolmstool.
Or was it a Toadstool?
It didn't matter, he got the word off just before his throat sealed shut and his skin melted off. Pretty unpleasant but only a drop in the bucket of the many deaths of a wizard.
Agust through some glitch in The Grand Scheme of Things, henceforth abreviated TGSoT, became aware of the other Vjorla stones in use at the exact moment his soul sprouted forth from his own final resting place.
Agust slammed his fist on the table.
"I SAW HIM DAMN YOU!"
The third lowest proctor of the highest council looked down his nose through a pair of spectacles at the mad hedge wizard.
"The black bastard is dead you say, old man?"
"And you felt his Vjorla stone creak and crack at the exact same moment as yours."
Incredulous condescension. Heavy incredulous condescension.
and he also said this, rudely,
"Yes, I'm sure the council SHOULD be apprised of all mad hedge wizards..."
"TO KEEP THEM OUT!"
And with that, The four hundred sixty-eighth incarnation of his damnable damnedness the black bastard ambush artiste extraordinaire, world reamer, ocean boiler, soul corrupter, black wizard who MUST UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES EVER BE KILLED, went completely unnoticed by the fucking council. Again.
Plunging countless worlds into nightmare and despair. Again.
Fuck this job.
The white wizard. His Saviorly magnificence, the wise one, the cherished son of Elderwood...Oh fucking can it already... No I'm serious. Enough titles. Did you even see what the black bastard did to me this time? Fourty two thousand incarnations in worlds with no foundation.
You can take your magical pen and scribe this shit in someone else's annals. If you know what I mean.
records indicate the inaccuracies of the above account of his holiness the white wizard, was not actually the white wizard himself interfering with the scribe's duties but an interloping prankster pretending to be the white wizard.
So it came to pass that a not so noble hedgewizard that got too far out on toadstools would be the savior of saviors and rescue the White Wizard from his many incarnations amongst the ungrounded worlds.
This is the...more or LESS YOU FOOL accurate account of that particular white wizards journey to and from oblivion. The ungrounded worlds. I am Scribe Mnarquist of the holy council. This is also my tale of becoming the White Wizard. Grand Master of being apprised of all schemes. Impossible to ambush. His holifuckness. Possessed by the most holy spirit. Keeper of the ghost of the white wizards that have come before and all that will be. The survivor and sustainer of the grounded worlds.
And all because I was a stupid apprentice scribe assigned to a mad hedge wizard.
There are many on the council and many more who will read this account, who would doubt me, and I warn you that though it is certain that I, the white wizard, live to tell you these tales, so too must live the black bastard.
When The Grand Ambusher of innocent people who are just minding their own business really, his putrid filthiness that conjures weapons of mass confusion to unground worlds and boil oceans killed me the last time he used a knife. Not a nullbladed entropy knife, just a notched and well used butcher's knife. It is by this fact alone that I am saved, for although my many incarnations have survived the ungrounding of a nullbladedentropyknife's cut, this particular incarnation was fucking tired of it, and probably wouldn't have even bothered with the whole vjorlstone nonsense.
Agust and I were smoking toadstools and eating strange fruit he found in his swamp, or was it eating toadstools and smoking the strange fruit he found in his swamp?
We were partaking in many strange concoctions in the days when I was assigned to work with him. Although the council would never listen to such a claim, they nevertheless sent a lesser scribe to go account for the hedgewizards madness. It was a typical assignment and I was tired of accounting for the madness of hedge-wizards. I was tired of everything really, when he told me he could draw the inside of the black bastard's vjorla stone, I barely registered the magnitude of his claim.
"And it was while you were ingesting this strange fruit and toadstool concoction?" I asked him in nearly the same dispelling tone of the low proctor. Being sure to log everything with my scribe's quill and extra-dimensional papyrus.
"OH yes! Quite the same concoction!"
"But its still missing something!"
"There was another ingredient you say?" notating.
"Yes, that's it!"
The hedgewizard leapt towards his bedroll and started wiggling a finger around in a crack in the boards of his shack until he produced a large blue and green caterpillar with large spines.
"I had been preparing a mixture of these the day before....perhaps I was not so diligent in cleaning my pot...ehehhehe...and some..ehehe..residue of one of these fellows remained.
He held the caterpillar up to my face and as I was examining it closely he squeezed it between his two bony fingers and sprayed the blue-green guts into my eyes.
I remember screaming at least a dozen saving syllables and the next thing I knew my skin was excruciatingly melting off, I was dead and gone and suddenly I was the white wizard.
It was true.
You see, when the black bastard is killed and uses a vjorla stone, something forbidden to a real son-of-a-bitch like him, the next person to visit the galactic center must necessarily become the white wizard, for a dark and terrible tribulation is upon the many grounded worlds when the black bastard has had a choice of incarnations.
And so you may now be grasping the root of the problem and you may even understand why letting a motherfucker of an ambusher like him, the black bastard, reincarnate anywhere in anything or anyone is such a bad idea.
He could even assassinate the galactic emperor, the one who grounds the worlds in the truth of their creation.
So of course he did that, and of course he used a null-bladed-entropy knife on the emperor's throat. Reincarnating as a Mrovine Oak used in the Emperor's bedchamber furniture, was easy enough.
So I went looking through the ungrounded places for our many times assassinated galactic emperor, and this time it only took *shudder* fourty two thousand incarnations in that damnable place.
Nothing makes sense in the ungrounded worlds, not just in the ways you are used to things not making sense, but in the ultimate ways as well. In one instance I was brutally raped by a forest of Ents. There was no reason for that, you want there to be more to the story to at least understand WHY the Ents raped me, perhaps they were angry about forestry or something, but as the Ents told me towards the end of the rapings, "Ents rule, wizards are crummy lovers. Say your saving syllable now, wise wizard".
Then they bashed my skull in.
No emperor to be found here. On to the next madness.
So it went. Now this is not to say I was raped fourty two thousand times, because in the ungrounded places, no such patterns can be discerned. It was just one particularly disturbing encounter, that I don't really want to talk about, but maybe if the high council sees in these annals what they are putting white wizards through, they will listen to all mad hedgewizards in the future.
It wasn't until I encountered the black bastard himself in the fourty two thousandth hellacious incarnation, that I realized I had a job to do. It was in a tavern known to many as "keep-the-fuck-away-from" due to it's patronage of pirates and buggerers and buggering pirates, but for no real reason there I was, sitting face to face with him, apparently playing the finger dance with a notched and well worn butcher's knife. The moment I incarnated at this table I knew who it was I sat across from and knew this to be his deathblow, his unholy moment of sheer unfuckingprecedented terror in which many plots and schemes come to fruition by virtue of a single ambush, including the ungrounding of the entire empire.
I also knew who I was, as all schoolwizards are taught that the next person through the Vjorla field after the black bastard must be the one to face him down and become the white wizard.
His scheme relied on two things. One, was that he expected me to fumble the knife while in the throes of understanding that came with incarnating into the single grounded unreality, his unholy resting place, where he shall remain and live and suffer foreverandever, thus chopping off a finger and in this way giving him a second victory, before he slashed my throat with a dull ordinary butcher's knife.
The second was that the not so noble hedgewizard Agust C. Cartwrite did not mistakenly ingest a rare caterpillar's guts with his morning alchemical ingestions and melt his skin off at the exact moment the black bastard was killed in a knife fight in a surly tavern, much like the one I am currently playing the finger dance in, by the previous white wizard. This clearly happened, as I am the scribe who is responsible for recording the madness of hedge wizards and it is all there in my field report.
Suddenly feeling grounded in reality, The Grand White Wizard of all, takes the knife and begins to intensify his finger dance until the air becomes hot.
The black bastard's eyes go wide as he realizes his plan has failed and his intrusion in the Vjorla stone was recorded in the grounded places. I don't mean wide-eyed like when you take too many toadstools. I mean suddenly his eyes were the size of grapefruit, then in the next moment two planets, and he was done for.
I, the white wizard wield the light-bladed scimitar of all creation, openly and brazenly before the black bastard in a surly tavern of onlookers and above the crescent of the scimitar's blade can be seen a hand unblackened, unburnt and uncut, with five fingers each shooting lightning around the enlarging eyes of the blackbastard preventing him from uttering a saving syllable and distracting him from his maniacal plans of ambush and deceit long enough to lop his head off with an ordinary butcher's knife.
So it went.
So I have prepared this account for you the high council, to once again drastically reconsider your anti-toadstool policies, as it was the faithful reporting of His Nobleness Quite-mad-hedge-wizard Agust C Cartwhit that once again saved us all.
His grandlordshipness, the savior of the grounded places, and he who must rise and fall to the ungrounded places as an agent of TGSoT, The White Wizard.
p.s. I have returned the Galactic Emperor to the much-grounded oversight of the council once again. He was quite mad in the ungrounded worlds and believed my duel with the black bastard was the precursor to a drunken brawl in a pirate's tavern. It is in this way that the black bastard concocted the beginnings of his next scheme and ambush, as the emperor forcefully took the knife from me and proceeded to stab me in the chest with it. It is in this way that I have died from the ungrounded reality, and it is for this reason that I implore the council to research the history and long term effects of Galactic Emperors assassinating their own grand protector white wizards. It is most likely a foresight into a more sinister plot than the one I have hopefully foiled in this account, ie. the banning of toadstools from our galactic empire.