A gigantic storm rips across the ocean, bringing light and poison to the dark depths. A break in time and space has splintered across this once peaceful habitat of the Mer. A word sorcerer whispers and scribbles in the darkness, desperate to undo what forbidden magic has wrought. His pale hair flies around his grizzled face, leaving…
“Excuse me.” The gnarled pointing finger of the sorcerer raises. The whispers of magic stop. “You do know that this dribble is too fancy-pants.”
The author is taken aback at the chiding tone of her character. “Too what?” She taps her fingers on the keys, trying to continue her story, but it seems to be out of her control.
“Too fancy-pants.” He jumps down from his desk and lands with a slight limp. “You spend too much time thinking of the perfect words.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “It reads like, well.” He rolls up the sleeves of his ancient robe. The author winces at the careless gesture.
“It is stifling in here, you know.” He strolled through the decrepit library and shook his head. “All these words gone to waste, and not a thing to show for it,” he continues, conversationally.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” The author grumbles.
“I would like to be younger. No more ancient magician. Mid-thirties would be nice.” He rubs a hand across his bearded face. “I’d like to look less like a cartoon wizard and more like a guy on vacation.”
“You can’t just change the plot. That’s a complete story overhaul!” The author glares at her character. “The longer we argue about this, the longer you’ll stay here.”
The wizard turns on his heel and glares right back at the author. “Do you know how long I’ve sat in this blasted darkness, penning away my soul for this deadend story?” His fury is only matched by the dark crimson of his face.
The author opens her mouth.
“467 days, 9 hours, and 22 minutes,” he interrupts. “I’ve had it!” He pulls open the creaking door and starts making his way down the spiral stairwell. “And another thing, do you know how ridiculous it is to have me in the tallest tower? Static electricity, ie lightening destroys my magical aura, and shatters my magic.” He yanks the robe off and lets it drift to the floor. With a wave of his hands, he brings them both to the bottom of the tower. The author is taken aback at the ease in which he casts. “I quit. Figure out a new and fun story for us, or find some other flunky to sit in a tower and twiddle his thumbs.” He slams the tower door shut.
The author stares at the door, and then stares at her now blank story. “No more cookies before writing.” She drops her head in her hands and sighs.