Chapter 2 Archmage Mossitore

"Kakaka, well done Alberic, procuring mature Starlight Grass specimens no less... They happen to be just what I require for an upcoming experiment..." A raspy voice emanated from the black-robed mage before him, features obscured below an expansive hood.

All that was visible was a withered expanse of leathery skin akin to an ancient mummy, and one yellowed eyeball. Alberic had faced the brutish crocodile without losing nerve, yet before this warlock, he couldn't help but tremble. Alberic believed if this sorcerer deigned to lift a finger, the fiercest beasts would docilely grovel at his feet like kittens.

Such was the might of magic, the majesty of a warlock - the true epitome of terror and despair. "Now then, Alberic. As mages, we generally adhere to equivalent exchange. So go ahead, name your price," said Mossitore, lightly tapping his sorcerous staff as he eyed the youth. Alberic took a deep breath to steady himself, but the agitation only disturbed his wounds anew, a crimson stain blossoming on his chest.

But the pain did not hinder Alberic's words or movements one whit. He bowed deeply before replying in the most reverent tone: "I wish to become Master Mossitore's disciple, to serve and assist you while unlocking magic's deepest mysteries."

Alberic's bowed torso received no reply, so his deferential posture remained frozen at ninety degrees while awaiting the archmage Mossitore's decision. "Tick... Tick..." The rhythmic magic hourglass marked the sluggish passage of time.

Unable to glimpse the archmage's expression, Alberic could only watch a gaunt, bone-white finger lazily rapping the sorcerous staff. It was deeply vexing to have one's fate held hostage. Yet Alberic understood that if Mossitore accepted him as disciple, his future – and destiny – would lie firmly in his own hands. Far more so than the great majority of Mosobla's mages who might abruptly find themselves reduced to specimens on some magic-user's experiment table should their master wake up in a foul mood.

The waiting dragged on interminably. Blood now dripped freely from the gnashing wound on Alberic's chest, forming a small crimson puddle at his feet. Under normal circumstances, defiling an esteemed archmage's sanctum would invite severe punishment. Yet oddly, Mossitore evinced no displeasure even as scarlet pooled below his supplicant. Of course, consumed with anxiety over his pending request, such trivialities utterly escaped Alberic's notice.

“Heheheh, I’ve heard old hag Angelinia and codger Colonso just can’t stop singing your praises for your magic classes.” “Why not take one of them on as master?” Mossitore suddenly asked, rupturing the brooding atmosphere with faux casualness.

Alberic naturally had his own reasons for seeking Mossitore’s tutelage instead of the others. But honestly confessing them would have been too outrageous – as if he could openly state finding Mossitore the “most normal” of the academy’s archmages. Unlike mad Angelinia's occasional manic episodes, or Colonso's penchant for vivisecting his own apprentices during magical experiments...

At the academy, Master Mossitore taught introductory alchemy and fundamental fire element studies - perfectly suiting Alberic's innate affinity. Furthermore, what little magic he commanded centered on fire spells. After careful deliberation, he had decided the seldom noticeable Mossitore was best qualified to mentor him. Hence, this understated archmage received his earnest petition.

The three Starlight Grass specimens he'd risked life and limb obtaining were crucial neutralizing agents in alchemical procedures. To most mages, their intrinsic worth was negligible. Yet Mossitore found them valuable indeed. For the temperamental herb defied all attempts at domestication, only sprouting in the wilderness.

After some deliberation, Alberic replied in low tones: “Because I believe you have ventured farther into the mysteries of sorcery than either Master Angelinia or Colonso, sir.” “Only by following your teachings may I grasp the true essence of magic.” His response promptly elicited raucous laughter from Mossitore. Yet the wizard’s innate raspiness only amplified the unsettling qualities of that cackling echoing bizarrely around the dim sanctum.

Mossitore relished both the flattery and Alberic's subtle disparagement of his senior colleagues. Yet the decisive factor in accepting the boy was the second half of his appeal - the desire to unlock magic's true secrets rather than pursue raw power. "Heh heh heh! Alberic, if you truly comprehend that a mage draws strength from knowledge itself... why, you would exceed nine-tenths of the academy's students.”

No sooner had elation bloomed than bone-deep fatigue asserted itself, his healing wounds beginning to itch maddeningly. "Go rest first. I shall take you on as my fifth disciple," Mossitore declared. "There is still a trace of toxins in your blood... You've used Blue Moss for your injuries, yes?" "I have, Master. I applied Blue Moss poultices en route to the city to treat my wounds," Alberic respectfully replied, savoring the novel appellation of “Master” from his own lips.

Blue Moss was a common, mundane plant boasting negligible magical value. Yet it possessed anesthetic properties to numb wounded tissue, albeit at the cost of being toxic itself without an antidote to purge the poison. Archmage Mossitore exuded an eerie mien, but Alberic's choice had been indubitably sound.

Mossitore produced a large flask of intermediate antidote from his robes, along with a short staff and insignia bearing the unmistakable aura of magic. It was Alberic's first glimpse of genuine enchanted artifacts.

The former was a wizard's staff - Mossitore's token gift to his new disciple. Though the archmage modestly dubbed it a "trifle" crafted in his spare time, to Alberic it was an indisputable treasure. For enclosed within was a vial of corrosive acid potent enough to dissolve the armored hide of formidable magical beasts.

The insignia granted Alberic future access into Mossitore's sanctum, another clear symbol of discipleship. “Go rest now. Return in three days to assist me with an experiment.” Having presented the three gifts, Mossitore dismissed Alberic with a wave of his cadaverous hand.

Only now did Alberic dare meet Mossitore’s gaze, the hood revealing aquiline features and jaundiced eyes that belied the archmage’s mystical mien.