And another thing about the Call?
It doesn't give a rat's ass what you might have been doing when it comes pounding on your door.
In Savas Tigh's case, he was sitting in the middle of a library in Radasanth, just about to pore over an eldritch tome or six, when the Call grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and sent him careening through a blue and gold lightshow punctuated by flashes of dust devils in an endless black desert. Savas was a Wizard though, and a relatively advanced one at that. Where mere coincidence brought Rowan and where Aeraul saw only blurs, Savas got the whole picture in stark, vivid, utterly brutal detail. One moment, he was sitting at that big oak desk. The next, he was standing on charred black sand beneath a huge compound star, every one of its glows clashing black and white, the lines between them defined by arcane formulae that Savas recognized at an instinctive level. He had enough time to look back earthward as his feet began to lift from the sand. He saw a distant library of solid black stone, held together by numbers and words, by semantics writ large all over the laws of physics and logic. He saw a figure in a black cloak just standing there, mighty as a tower defined by empty blue sky at its back.
And finally came the flash of gold.
Savas found himself staring at an unopened letter where the tome had been. He had his arms laid across a great big counter -- a bar fashioned from metal plates and wood boards. Behind him, there were howls of battle and the obscenities of combat. In front of him, a severely cracked mirror. Guns were going off all over the place. Not a single bullet touched him. Savas looked around, then turned his attention back to the letter. In a numb sort of way, he opened it. Blood splattered all over his back and a severed arm tumbled past his shoulder. Savas took out the letter and unfolded it. An ork tackled a lesser orc onto the counter and bit his face off. Savas read the letter.
Savas considered it all rather thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he nodded to himself and said, very resignedly, "One of those, I see."Originally Posted by S.D.
He stole someone else's beer, then had a severed finger as a snack. Orc tasted different from human, he noted. More like beef than pork, a bit saltier too. Savas looked himself over and took stock of the situation with a total detachment from what was actually going on. He was wearing Coronian gentlemanware under a mail-reinforced leather robe. Boots, good old salvic boots. His utility belt, stuffed to the limit with potions, chemical agents and reagents of all kinds. His axe in his robe, his daggers, some wands. Savas nodded and stood up just in time to avoid getting crushed as borcs brawled into the counter, assaulting each other with fists the size of bowling balls.
"Welp," Savas said to nobody in particular, "Time to go to ground."
Discretion is the better part of valor. As Wizardry goes, it was actually a sign of enlightenment and maturity that Savas thought best to try it.
It was a damn shame things didn't work out that way, but you can't fault the guy for trying.
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