Wizard Tech Support

It started, as these things often do, on a Tuesday.

I was minding my own business, sipping lukewarm coffee and trying to convince my printer that yes, it did have paper, when an elderly man in midnight-blue robes suddenly appeared in my living room in a poof of cinnamon-scented smoke.

Before I could scream, run, or hit him with the nearest IKEA lamp, he reached out and tapped my forehead with a glowing staff.

“Arakam, melakazam, zafrume!” he chanted, voice reedy but firm. Blue light surrounded me, warm and oddly fizzy, like standing in a carbonated bath.

Then he left. Just walked out the front door, humming a jaunty little tune.

I stood in place for a full five minutes, blinking, half-expecting someone to jump out with a camera yelling You’ve been enchanted!

No one did.

I checked the mirror. Looked fine. No horns, no scales, no ancient runes glowing on my skin. I could still remember my name, my job, my Wi-Fi password — all signs I wasn’t completely cursed. And yet…

Something was off. I needed to know what.

Step One: The Local Mage

There’s a crystal shop down on Maple Street that doubles as a minor magic consultancy. The owner, Mistress Elowen, wears flowing silk robes and sells enchanted incense that makes you feel emotions you didn’t know existed. Her sign reads: Readings, Cleansings, Mild Hexes, and Extremely Specific Love Potions.

She peered at me through a monocle made of dragonfly wings.

“Hm. Blue glow, you say? Elderly man, pointy hat? Staff?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Classic spellcasting behavior. Did he mention what he was trying to do?”

“No. He just zafrume’d me and left.”

“Oof.” She took a long drag from a pipe that smelled like regret and lavender. “That’s not really my department. I do minor enchantments and romantic alignment analysis. You’ll want a specialist for this sort of thing.”

“Who?”

She tapped her long, jeweled nail against her chin. “Try Byron the Grey. He’s two blocks over, above the used bookstore. He’s seen a lot of zafrume-style curses. You’ll know his door — it’s the one that hums.”

Step Two: Byron the Grey

The door did hum. Also, sparkled. Very on-brand.

Byron the Grey turned out to be a middle-aged man in a hoodie with faintly glowing cuffs, surrounded by floating tomes and empty Red Bull cans. His beard was dyed ombre.

After scanning me with something that looked suspiciously like a magical salad tong, he frowned.

“Hmmm. Definitely a Class-3 Arcano-Imprint. Blue-variant.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily. Blue’s tricky. Could be a minor charm. Could be a gateway to a parallel dreamscape dimension. Or a mood stabilizer enchantment. You feeling unusually calm?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then it’s not that. But this isn’t my area. I mostly handle magical malware and summoning backlash. You’ll want someone who deals with color-specific hexes.”

I stared. “There are color-specific hex experts?”

“Oh yeah. Big field. You want Melasar. He’s just down the street — look for the floating mailbox with teeth.”

Step Three: Melasar

Melasar was… damp. That was my first impression.

His office was in the basement of a laundromat, the air thick with steam and spell residue. He wore translucent robes that sparkled faintly with condensation and spoke in a voice that sounded like he gargled fog.

“Blue light? Not me. I only do red and yellow curses. Blue’s more of an emotional resonance category. Probably some kind of binding or long-form charm.”

“What kind of binding?”

“No idea. I don’t have clearance for that.” He paused. “You’ll want to talk to Zelia of the Spire.”

I sighed.

“She’s out in the Whispering Hills. Only reachable by ferry-goat.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say ferry-goat?”

“It’s very relaxing,” Melasar assured me.

Step Four: Zelia of the Spire

I did not find it relaxing.

The ferry-goat smelled like damp socks and judgment, and the entire journey involved clinging to its bristly back as it galloped across shimmering air currents while humming lullabies.

Zelia lived in a tower that appeared to be made of wind chimes and grief. She was ancient, wore a dress made entirely of stitched-together scrolls, and had two crows perched on her shoulders who took turns glaring at me.

After an intense scan involving a crystal pendulum, a set of bones, and a highly personal questionnaire, she declared:

“Oh yes, you’ve been tagged.”

“Tagged?”

“For follow-up.”

“Follow-up what?”

“No clue. It’s a placeholder spell. Think of it like a magical sticky note. Something’s coming for you. Or maybe you’re supposed to go somewhere. Or say a word. Or eat a very specific soup. Hard to say.”

I stared. “So you don’t know what the spell does?”

“No. But I can tell you who might. You’ll need Korax.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Korax of the Seventy-Three Screaming Hells.”

Step Five: Korax (Hold, Please)

Contacting Korax was… a process.

You don’t just go to the Seventy-Three Screaming Hells. You have to request an appointment via obsidian tablet, wait for the blood ink to dry, and then stand perfectly still in a salt circle while being screamed at by a banshee on loop until a rift opens.

Customer service was… slow.

“Thank you for contacting the Hellish Inquiry Division,” droned the voice of the void. “Your call is very important to us. Please hold while we locate Korax. Your current wait time is…”

A pause.

“Four to six eternities.”

I screamed.

From the shadows, a skeletal receptionist offered me a lollipop and a clipboard.

“Standard intake form,” she rasped. “Please initial beside the flames you’re willing to be consumed by.”

Eventually: Korax

Korax looked like a tax accountant who’d made a pact with every possible god just to avoid smiling. His suit was pressed. His horns were polished.

“So,” he said, glancing at the glowing rune on my forehead that I hadn’t even noticed until now, “you got zafrume’d, huh?”

“Yes. What does it mean?”

“Well, the good news: it’s not a curse.”

I exhaled.

“The bad news: it’s a quest hook.”

“…Excuse me?”

“You’ve been tagged by a rogue quest-giver. Old wizard named Elric the Erratic. Goes around randomly enchanting people and assigning them life-changing destinies. Harmless, mostly. Unless you ignore the hook for too long. Then things… escalate.”

“Elaborate ‘escalate.’”

“Oh, you know. Sudden dragon ambushes. Exploding doors. Spontaneous musical numbers.”

“I hate all of that.”

Korax tapped a rune-stained fingernail against his clipboard. “Says here you’re marked for ‘The Awakening of the Lost Ember and Restoration of the Forgotten Crown.’ Huh. That’s a Level 8 campaign.”

“I don’t even know how to sword!”

“Don’t worry. There’s usually a tutorial.”

The Journey Begins

When I returned home, exhausted, blue-light-tinged, and significantly more wary of goats, Elric the Erratic was waiting in my living room again. Eating my cereal.

“Quest accepted?” he asked cheerfully.

“No, I just spent a week of my life getting the magical runaround and discovering I’ve been conscripted into some destiny nonsense I didn’t ask for!”

He beamed. “That’s a yes.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll thank me after the prophecy.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

He stood, brushed cereal crumbs from his beard, and handed me a glowing map, a crystal compass, and a sword that immediately set off my smoke detector.

“Off you go!” he said cheerfully, vanishing again in a pop of lemon zest and regret.

I stood in silence for a long moment.

Then the map began to sing.

Loudly.

In rhyming couplets.

The Moral of the Story?

Never answer the door.
Never trust a man in robes.
And never, ever underestimate wizard tech support.

You’ll end up on hold for eternity, covered in runes, and halfway to becoming the reluctant savior of a forgotten kingdom with a fire-breathing sword and a goat-based travel plan.

Still better than dealing with my printer.