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SilasCrane t1_jcckqah wrote

I:

Florian let out a long sigh. The last trap had been foiled, the last puzzle solved, and the many treacherous decoy treasures dismissed. Finally, he stood at the center of the vast underground labyrinth he had painstakingly navigated over the course of the past month, and beheld the object of his search: an unassuming wooden coffer set atop a plain stone plinth.

Hand trembling, he reached out and lifted the coffer's lid. His eyes widened, as the light of his torch caught the glint of the polished bronze object inside.

The Wishmaker's Key.

Many great men and women had benefited from its subtle magic, he knew. Though the wielders of the Key were never simply handed their heart's desire, somehow -- often through trials and tribulations -- they found their way to that which they had wished for. And now, it was his turn.

He did not know where the Key would take him, or what it would require of him in order to grant his wish. But he had come this far, and despite his weariness, he was ready to take the next step on his journey. Reverently, he lifted the key from its coffer.

In appearance, it was a large skeleton key of a simple design, and might have been belonged to the door of any number of humble dwellings. But the untarnished mirror-like gleam of its surface told a different tale. This was something well cared for, something long treasured.

He took a deep breath. He'd thought long and hard about how to word his wish, but in the end, he decided to simply speak from the heart. The Wishmaker's Key was no monkey's paw, nor was it some trickster genie that was eager to twist the words of its master.

"I wish to know your story." Florian said. "What are you, and where do you come from?"

"Interesting. Rarely are the Key's journeys so short," said a voice from behind him.

Florian whirled around to face the source of the sound. An old man in long blue robes stood before, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff. His face was mature, though not elderly in appearance, despite his long white hair, and the white beard that reached below the belt of golden cord at his waist. A broad-brimmed hat with a pointed crown perched on his head at an angle, and Florian's eyes widened as he saw the three white owl's feathers that adorned the ban.

"Alfarinn Owlfeather!" he exclaimed. According to Florian's research, Alfarinn had been the builder of the labyrinth he now stood in, as well as the Key's most recent wielder. But then, according to that same research, he should also have been long dead, by this time.

"Indeed!" the wizard affirmed, with a nod. "And you are a rarity, young sir. Many have Wished for wealth or power, a few have wished for knowledge, but you are the first I know of to ask for a story."

"I thought I wanted those other things, once." Florian admitted, cautiously. "That's why I became what I am, er...a treasure hunter, I suppose."

"Hmm," Alfarinn said, nodding thoughtfully. "What changed, then?"

Florian eyed the old wizard uncertainly. Older magi tended towards eccentricity, and could be unpredictable. He wasn't sure if the wizard considered him a thief or a guest, but he decided honestly was probably the best policy -- wizards often had ways of discerning truth from falsehood.

"Ever since I was a child, my favorite stories were the ones about the Wishmaker's Key," Florian explained. "I loved hearing and reading about all the amazing people throughout history who've wielded the Key, and gone on incredible adventures to find their heart's desire."

"And?" Alfarinn prompted, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"And, after researching the Key, hunting for it, and finding wealth and adventure along the way...it's occurred to me that what I really wanted most wasn't to use the Key for some other end. What I really want is more of the story."

The wizard nodded. "You may disappointed, then. The story of the Wishmaker's Key has no ending -- nor will it ever, I should think."

"I know." Florian said, with a slight smile. "And I wouldn't want it to. That's why I wished to know the beginning."

The wizard smiled back. "Ah, I see now. Then it is as I said -- the journey the Key has sent you on to find your heart's desire is quite short. But considering the journey you undertook to claim it in the first place, perhaps that is only fair."

The wizard raised his staff, and two arm chairs appeared next to the stone plinth. Orbs of light flashed into existence around the central chamber of the labyrinth, revealing it to be a surprisingly cozy-looking study lined with bookshelves.

"Have a seat," the old mage prompted, and Florian obliged.

"If I may ask..." Florian said, feeling bolder now that it seemed the wizard was kindly disposed towards him. "What did you wish for?"

"To become a great wizard and find the secret of immortality." Alfarinn said, with a chuckle. "Rather cheeky of me, wasn't it, working in two wishes at once like that?"

"You're immortal?" Florian asked, excitedly.

"Yes. As are you, and as are all men. The core of who we are is not flesh and blood, and cannot die. This is the true secret of immortality." Alfarinn gestured to his relatively young face. "Oh, this? Merely a few workings of magic that prolong life. My body shall live long and remain hale, Divine willing, but it will still perish one day."

"I see." Florian said, frowning thoughtfully. "And what of the Key, and its origins?"

"Ah, that is something I discovered in the process of granting the first half of my wish." Alfarinn said. He gestured to the Wishmaker's Key that Florian still held in his hand. "Even objects without a mind have a kind of memory, and I found that the Key is no exception. With the right bit of magic, that memory can be coaxed out of them."

The old wizard learned forward, with a mysterious smile. "So, young man, here is where the story of the Wishmaker's Key begins..."

(continued in comments)

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SilasCrane t1_jcckvxw wrote

II:

Once, long ago, there was a little old Tinker, with a little old shop, tucked away in the dingiest corner of a little old city that is now gone from the world. Though merely a tinker, the least of all artisans, he was also a genius of his craft: for it was said of this Tinker, that he could make whatever you wished.

He'd work wonders with the humblest of materials: once, a poor farmer came to him for a weapon to protect his family, for a cart of his produce had been looted and wrecked by bandits while his son was taking it to market, and the farmer's son himself beaten and left for dead. From iron band of a broken cart-wheel, the Tinker made an iron blade and crossguard, and crafted a hilt from one of its wooden spokes, bound together with strips of hide from the poor old carthorse the bandits had cruelly slain in their pillaging.

Thus armed the farmer learned to use his uncommon blade through much practice, and thereafter he brought justice to the bandits by the edge of his sword, becoming renowned as a mighty warrior, and a terror to brigands throughout the land.

On another occasion, a simple washer-woman came to the Tinker, and begged him for a dress for her faithful, hardworking daughter, who secretly desired above all else to attend the kingdom's grand ball. She could only offer a small bag of coins, mostly copper, with a precious few silver pennies mixed in. But the Tinker took her coins, and told her to send him her daughter to be measured, along with one of the simple frocks she owned.

When the night of the ball came, the young woman was arrayed in the most wondrous gown the kingdom had ever seen: though woven of simple dyed linen, it was so beautifully adorned with finely wrought copper ornaments, and so intricately embroidered with silver thread, that it outshone garments made from the rarest of silks. The washer-woman's daughter was the belle of the ball that night, and she attracted the interest of a handsome young lord, who would later become her husband.

The Tinker made many such creations for many folk in need, taking but little payment for his services, and sometimes taking none at all. But alas, one night, he fell asleep at his little workbench, and never woke again. The good people of the little old city where he lived mourned the kindly old Tinker sorrowfully, and gave him as a fine a funeral as that of any king.

Amid the pomp and ceremony that surrounded his burial, the Tinker's shop was all but forgotten, for it had been as humble as the Tinker himself, and had contained nothing of any great value.

But one day, a young man from afar who had heard of the renowned Tinker, came to that little old city, with a fervent wish burning in his heart. He was sad when he learned the Tinker was dead, but having come so far he still went to find the little old shop, which had sat untouched since its owner's death.

Within it, he found the little old workbench where he'd been told that the little old Tinker had labored on his last night. Atop it lay the broken pieces of a brazen vessel, whose original form and purpose could not be guessed at from its bent and shattered remains, along with a number of different metal files, resting on a bed of bronze filings beneath a thick blanket of dust.

But in the center of the pile of abandoned tools and metal shavings, somehow untouched by the years of accumulated dust, was the object the Tinker had made from the filed-down shards of the vessel on his last night: a gleaming bronze key. With awe and wonder, not quite knowing why, the young man took the key, and clutched it to his breast.

And then he made the first wish, upon the Wishmaker's Key.

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