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THE WIZARD ---------- The wizard, watchful, waits alone within his tower of cold gray stone and ponders in his wicked way what evil deeds he'll do this day. He's tall and thin, with wrinkled skin, a tangled beard hangs from his chin, his cheeks are gaunt, his eyes set deep, he scarcely eats, he needs no sleep. His fingers wave arcane commands, ten bony sticks on withered hands, his flowing cloak is smirched with grime, He's worn it since the dawn of time. Upon his hat, in silver lines are pictured necromantic signs, symbols of the awesome power of the wizard, alone in his cold stone tower. He scans his mystic stock in trade- charms to fetch a demon's aid, seething stews of purplish potions, throbbing thaumaturgic lotions, supernatural tracts and tomes replete with lore of elves and gnomes, talismans, amulets, willowy wand to summon spirits from far beyond. He spies a bullfrog by the door and stooping, scoops it off the floor. He flicks his wand, the frog's a flea through elementary sorcery, the flea hops once, the flea hops twice, the flea becomes a pair of mice that dive into a bubbling brew, emerging as one cockatoo. The wizard laughs a hollow laugh, the soaking bird's reduced by half, and when, perplexed, it starts to squawk, the wizard turns it into chalk with which he deftly writes a spell that makes the chalk a silver bell which tinkles in the ahsen air till flash...a fire burns brightly there. He gestures with an ancient knack to try to bring the bullfrog back. Another flash!...no flame now burns as once again the frog returns, but when it bounds about in fear, the wizard shouts, "begone from here," and midway through a frightened croak it vanishes in clouds of smoke. The wizard smirks a fiendish smirk reflecting on the woes he'll work as he consults a dusty text and checks which hex he'll conjure next. He may pluck someone off the spot and turn him into...who knows what? Should you encounter a toad or lizard, look closely...it may be the work of the wizard.

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