The sorcerer’s clear view of the sky confirmed the distal gray sun had moved nearer.
The older Spellweaver, who wore the elaborate robe, spoke,” You are strengthened by the nearness of Gray Andreas. I can see it in your eyes, Sorcerer. You are no simple shaman. Be advised that any attempts to cast harm here will be dealt with severely.”
“I am besieged by hordes of Dwarves. I seek remedy,” he answered concisely.
“What are Dwarves?” a second younger appearing Spellweaver asked. His hair remained silver.
“You are blessed that your world is not infested with them. They are brutes and have no regard for nature. They mine and violate the land. If they had their way, there would be no forest standing in my world. They search for me now. Can you help me?” Morlecainen pleaded.
The Teacher said, “You are welcome to rest and regain your strength. But we must know your plans and intentions. Seilvre and Ramish will take you to a guest tree. We will have council. I will safeguard your staff.”
Morlecainen continued the ruse of being the underdog and released the sulfur granules, which obediently returned to their resting place in his robe. The older orange-haired Spellweaver smiled wryly. Was he telepathic? Did he know the sorcerer had the Fireball Spell at ready? Rarely sorcerers of Sagain enjoyed mind-reading. Keeping on the sheep suit seemed the best option at the moment. Weremen of Donothor wore fleece in order to sneak into farmer’s flocks and rob them of sheep.
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