Seymour slowly waved the talisman around himself in a circle. A tingle rushed through him at one specific direction. It felt like the soft caress of a lover, spreading outward just under his skin. They had never been able to imitate the effect. They had fashioned numerous stones, through the centuries, that took the place of this talisman but none of the copies ever felt the same as this; the original artifact. He didn't like the feel of the stones, which is why he used the original whenever possible.
He moved slowly through the woods with the talisman held before him. Outwardly it appeared as nothing more than a very well crafted wand, with a raven's feather tied to the handle with a hemp cord. The feather and cord were not the originals. In fact, Seymour knew they weren't integral to the operation of the item. Many centuries ago the original cord had warn away and broken. The wand had remained without the decoration ever since, until he discovered a reference in some of the oldest journals describing them. He couldn't duplicate the exact nature of the original cord, since it didn't describe the material, but the feather was explicitly that of a raven. With thoughts of historical accuracy, he had added back on the decoration.
The tingling grew. He was almost on top of the object of his quest. Seymour's excitement grew in proportion to the sensation coming from the divining wand. Suddenly there was a pulse of energy and the wand grew quiet. He knew from his experiments that it would resume as strongly if he moved it beyond a foot of whatever magic it had detected.
Seymour found himself standing in the middle of the woods and looking down at the groundcover of old leaves, the wand, almost forgotten in his hand, at his side. He was afraid of the final step.
If I do this there is no going back. I have defied no rules yet, just tradition.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and knelt.
From the lower position he suddenly knew what he was looking for and his heart leapt into his throat.
It can't be!
If he had asked for a sign for reassurance, none better could have appeared than what lay before him. It may have looked like nothing more than a tarnished gold ring with an amber stone, but Seymour knew better. The ring contained magic; a djiin. In fact, this very genie had helped to create the very talisman which he held. When the agent had taken it, he had mistaken it for the ring before him.
Gingerly he lifted the ring and shook off a few leaves. He held it poised above his finger. To place it on his finger would release him from his previous life. He enjoyed his work. Seymour had always enjoyed research, learning, reading, and just knowledge in general. Working for the Society, he had access to some of the rarest and most well hidden lore the world had ever known. He catalogued everything meticulously and organized the library and, when necessary, authenticated the rare artifact that the handful of agents actually managed to acquire.
That was their problem. The Society of Djiin was small. In total there were maybe a dozen members. Once, the Society had never maintained more than three members and two apprentices at any given time. Through the centuries they had given over to acceptance of the futility of three people scouring the world for the vessels containing genies and begun adding members. Seymour had been the first person brought in exclusively for his talents as an administrator and curator. They were growing quickly and needed the organization. Now that he had finally finished organizing the tomes of information, he felt free to begin what he felt would be the most crucial step for the growing society.
The ring plunged downward. The cold metal met the hard flesh and bone, at the base of his finger, and he gaze it a turn. The motion had been fluid for he didn't trust himself not to back out. Almost at once the ring began to heat, symbolically burning away his former life, the smoke that poured from the ring only added to the imagery. He had now broken the Society's first, most ardent, rule; never use the power of the djiin.
The smoke coalesced into the most beautiful woman Seymour had ever seen. He had read accounts of Laresa, but the mere words refused to do her justice. She had a perfect figure, accented by a gown which hugged her curves and seemed to change colors as it shifted, propelled by some unknown wind. Blond hair, so pale it was nearly silver, flowed slowly around her and moved to the same tempo as her gown.
But it was her eyes that held him. Seymour had always wondered why accounts varied about her eyes. He had assumed that she changed to suit the desires of her master, now he was not so sure. The eyes he stared into seemed to change color constantly, flowing from gold, to violet, to green to blue seamlessly. The robe could have been explained by simple tricks of the moonlight, her eyes could be nothing other than magic.
"What is your desire my master?" Seymour released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He was Laresa's newest master. His fate had been decided, if he was lucky he would simply be discharged from the Society. Some rogue agents had been killed for what he had just done. "Master?" He had spent too long contemplating his choice. "I am..."
"Laresa. I know who and what you are. Please do not try to read my thoughts. I know I haven't phrased it as such but I hope to form a good relationship with you and will not need to explicitly state what is a wish and what isn't."
Laresa was often known for her independence. Seymour didn't have the heart to be a strict or harsh master to her, but he couldn't afford for her to ask too many questions of him. If she ever tried to read his mind, she might become concerned or curious when she discovered his mental shielding. It was also possible that his status as master, his connection to the ring, would countermand his staunch mental discipline and grant her complete access to his thoughts.
"I understand master. I will not try to read your thoughts. This will, however, make granting your wishes more difficult." There was a calculating intelligence behind those eyes. Seymour noticed that her eyes had settled on a light blue, so vibrant they seemed to shine in the near darkness. With those powerful eyes staring back at him, he suddenly became very self-conscious.
"Please, my name is Seymour." He knew he was blushing but couldn't seem to stop. He was a bookworm. He might be large enough that the bullies never targeted him through his education, but he was homely enough that the attractive women never even noticed him. He didn't exactly think of himself as ugly, just slightly less than average.
And now the most beautiful woman he'd ever met wished to fulfill his ever desire.
No wonder so many people end up using genies for their own gratification!
The look in her eyes proclaimed her desire, no, her need to please him. Too many people would recognize that look only as sexual, but there was more too it than that. Seymour had been in love, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and knew what it had been like to want nothing more than to bring joy to another person.
