Is That Gravel in Your Voice?

(Or are you just glad to see me?)

Juncko Skazzarak the wizard’s voice was raspy from hours of incantations. What he wouldn’t give for a lozenge! You never read about wizards getting sore throats in those adventure novels that Yarbalast the Portly* was always carrying around, nose stuck in, etc. Juncko wouldn’t be caught dead reading those, the covers, yeesh! But he had a read a few on the toilet here and there, to pass the time, etc etc, while taking care of personal affairs, so to speak. Anyway, Juncko really preferred the menthol cough drops. They reminded him of the eucalyptus trees back home, but in a good way, not like orange marmalade, which was the bad way. Don’t get him started on orange marmalade, pretty much everyone thought after, really, well, first meeting. Wizards often met over breakfasts, so this did come up rather a lot. Juncko’s voice was sore because, quite frankly, he wasn’t a very good wizard. He’d missed the accented syllable on the 23rd passage of the Convocation of Illustrious Netherworld Beings Ill-Met By Moonlight (lesser version) for the Magickal Purposes of Ascertaining the True Time not just once but three times. All the wizard shoppe had were the damned cherry ones and those Juncko could not abide.

 

* Not because of the weight he carried, but because of the weight he carried. Should it have been “the Porter”? Come on!

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