Aaralon considered the choices quickly, aware of Sareth’s eyes on him. Knowing that he needed to make a decision soon, Aaralon ran through the relative benefits of each possible transformation.
“Minotaur. I want to be a minotaur. At least then I will be strong enough to fight my way out if things go badly.”
Although Aaralon could not see Sareth, he had the strange sensation that the Grand Magus approved of his choice. “A good choice, Aaralon. But remember, whelp, that minotaur are not known for their grasp of complicated magic, and even the most wizened minotaur shaman will only be able to use the most basic of spells.”
Aaralon suddenly felt worried. He was no trained fighter; his realm was words of power and books of knowledge that depended on the users wit and mental agility, not physical prowess of skill with a weapon.
“Wait!” Aaralon managed to stammer, but Sareth was already chanting the words and did not hear the students feeble protests. Or didn’t care.
An invisible storm began to roar through the room, books and loose papers tossed into the air by the power of the transformation spell coupled with a translocation spell to send Aaralon deep into orc territory.
The invisible winds of magic filled Aaralon’s body, the power of the spell overwhelming his senses. It felt at though his skin was made of wax, and a fire was burning inside of him that was causing it to become liquid. Panic filled him as Aaralon felt his eyes disintegrate and flow out of their sockets. The howling wind was a rain of razors on his exposed muscles, a million knives slicing thing strips of him away. The agony was too much for the youth, and suddenly he knew he was going to die here.
That was his real punishment; Sareth had just been toying with him all along. Aaralon tried to scream, but found his mouth had already melted off, his throat filled with the molten remains of his body. Darkness filled his mind, and then there was nothing. |