An apprentice battlemage

You are Jordan Farcourt, an up-and-coming battlemage. While still a position of considerable power and influence, battlemages occupy the lowest rung of the sorcery ladder. In Avaria, mastery of control-giving magic is so complete that fireballs and lightning storms are considered somewhat old-fashioned. Still, though, the intermittent orc raids need to be repelled somehow, and the threat of foreign invasion (however slim) must always be guarded against.

You recently completed your theoretical schooling in the Academy, and are on your way to your new post as apprentice. Your assigned tutor, Julius Kraye, is an odd match for you; he's a frail old man, with wiry white hair and a hunched back; quite the contrast to your tall, red-haired form. Still, though, he's as good a master as anyone could ask for. You've been journeying with him for some time, going from village to village in an effort to teach and protect the locals. Progress is slow, but after your years at the Academy you've gotten used to slow.

It's late in the evening as you step into your master's room at the local inn. Kraye is bent over his table, looking over a small mountain of scrolls. "Jordan," he calls, waving you over and leaning heavily on his staff. "Come, we have work to do."

You nod silently, respect for the old man's power and position outweighing your arrogance. The village's perimeter wards will have to be checked before either of you could relax and enjoy yourselves, which means several painstaking hours of crafting runes and setting the triggers, before informing the frequently-distracted guards of how to avoid setting them off.

You set about your work immediately, and by the time you're done, day has faded into night. The pair of you retreat to the inn. Kraye excuses himself to his room, claiming that he'll eat in the morning, while you settle down by the fire with a mug of ale and a haunch of fresh meat. The inn is relatively empty: a few woodsmen drink and gamble in the corner, an older man cleans the bar, and a pair of attractive women flit from table to table taking orders. One has tanned skin, large breasts and black hair, while the other is paled, willowy and blonde.

As you glance about, a sign in the corner catches your eye. 'Like her? Take her to your damn room, people are trying to drink. Leave one to serve, too, you greedy bastard.' You let out a chuckle as you finish reading; something interesting must have happened here once.