This is the story of John. Once known as John the Savant or John the Enchanter. Now he's just John, and oh how the mighty have fallen. This is not the beginning of his tale, but rather the beginning of his second life.
John woke up, a blessing in and of itself. A blessing, or a curse. His back was pricked in half a dozen spots, urging him to move to avoid the torture. Moving revealed a far worse malady. He ached everywhere. Even down— wait a minute. John was engorged. His cock ached in a different way than the rest of his body. He hadn't woken up like this in years... decades, even!
John managed a groan and rolled over. The course stalks of hay in the cheap pallet cracked and rustled under him. He expected to find the edge of his bed. No, not his bed, his bed was filled with feathers and the finest of silk sheets. This... this was somebody else's bed. A peasant's bed.
Instead John found the floor. He was lying on a course sheet stuffed with hay. It might as well have been a barn.
"Gods and demons," he muttered as he forced his aching muscles to work. He blinked and looked around, expecting to see the shapes of the room he was in, if not the details. His eyes had been failing him for years, but he'd enchanted an eye piece to make up for that. If only he could find it...
"This isn't my room," he said and then rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. That's not my bed. Stay with it, old boy," he chided himself.
He tilted his head. "Old..." he mused. He was old, but he'd been working on that. He was a wizard. Not, not just a wizard, an arch-mage! An enchanter so learned people came from miles to beg him for his counsel or, for a dear price, some magical bauble he had created.
He shook his head and asked himself, "Right, so I'm a wizard... why does that matter again? What was I saying? And by the fey, why do I hurt so much?"
John blinked and straightened his back. He felt a strain and a pop in his spine, but that relieved some of the ache instead of adding to it. His back wasn't what held his attention though, it was the room. The room was clear. Oh, it was dirty to be sure, but he could see the small table with two rickety chairs and the shelf on the wall. He could see the door and the latch, as well as the simple lock that even a child could pick. They weren't fuzzy or blocked by the strange spots that floated in his eyes.
Come to think of it, there were no spots in his eyes!
John straightened a little more and felt some of the tension in his lower back abate. He looked down at himself and frowned. He was naked. Naked and still hard enough to bash the door down with a few well placed hip thrusts. He smiled at the thought. Back in his day he might have even tried. Ah, the foolishness of youth.
Another look to the shelf and he saw what he'd missed before. A simple black robe, not one of his fancy ones that he'd enchanted. He wondered and tried to recall the words to one of his simplest spells. His lips parted but nothing came out. The words weren't there. He couldn't remember them.
"What's happening?" he croaked. "Am I mad? Have I finally lost my wits?"
There was more than a robe there. A staff leaned against the wall beside it. No— not a staff, a spear! "What in the abyss," he mumbled as he stepped over and reached for the spear. John jerked his hand back at the last moment. He, of all people, knew better than to touch something so obviously arcane. The shaft of the spear was black. Pitch black, almost as though it was made of charred wood that had been soaked in tar. It was smooth though, with no sign of any burns or marks upon it.
The blade though, that was something else. A small bulb was at the base of it and out of it eight inches of narrow crossed blades extended. It was a weapon meant for piercing, not slashing - although he'd not want to be on the receiving end of a cut from such a thing all the same. The metal of the blades was dark as well, though the edges had a reddish tint to them that a simple glance confirmed was not rust.
John studied the blades closer. He knew something about smithing, after all, and there were no seams. They were not two blades locked together, this was a single four edged blade. No simple weaponsmith could craft such a thing, not even a dwarf could manage this. No, this was a creation of magic.
He reached out and touched the shaft. No sooner than once his fingers wrapped around it a thunderclap struck his ears and should have made him stagger. He stood firm though, his eyes losing focus as images assaulted his mind. They came too fast for him to recognize them. A dusky hued goddess one in one breath. A glowing crystal on a pedestal the next. A bed - his bed, perhaps? The woman above him, her swollen breasts high and proud on her magnificent chest. Her boots — boots? Yes, they were hers. Black and made of some leather unlike any he'd seen before. The sharp heel alone was enough to strike fear in a man, but they were in front of him, offered to him. Did he—
The spear released him from the fugue. John staggered now, taking two steps to catch himself before he fell and risked breaking a hip or worse. He straightened himself and looked at the spear. It nagged at him, seeming familiar, but he wasn't sure why. He needed to study it. Focus on it. Attune himself to it. There were answers there and he needed to get them.
A knock at his door scattered his thoughts. He went to it and drew back the bolt and opened the door. A young woman with curly brown hair stood at the ready, a clean chamber pot in hand.
"Oh! Pardon, good sir... I didn't mean to... I can come back."
"No, no, it's fine," John mumbled and backed away.
She nodded and stepped in, her cheeks flaring red and her eyes darting to his waist and then away. She kept glancing back, only to make her blush deeper.
"I'm a fool," John groaned when he glanced down and saw what had the woman so flustered. "I'm sorry, I just got up and."
"I see that," she said and then clapped her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
John chuckled. "No, I deserved that. Let me just get dressed quickly."
"I can come back," she offered again.
He was already reaching for his robe. "No need, this will only take a moment," John said while leaning his spear against the wall. As he pulled the robe off the shelf a dagger and a pouch came with it and clattered the floor. Under the robe but still on the shelf were a pair of sandals. He cursed and pulled the robe over his head before squatting down and collecting the rest of his things.
The dagger was a fine weapon, that much was obvious even with it still its sheath. He found a pocket in his robe and tucked it in, laces and all. The pouch had the muffled clink of coins in it. Not as many as he would have preferred, but some was better than none. That went in another pocket.
Finished collecting himself, he reached out and grabbed the spear— his spear— again. "See, nice and proper again," he said.
Her eyes darted down to where his robe poked out. She looked back up at him and smiled. "That's quite the spear you've got. Are you a warrior?"
John missed his opportunity and looked at the spear. It was a fine weapon, he had no doubt. "A warrior? No. Far from it. I'm John. John the Savant, truth be told, though I do seem to struggle remembering how I ended up here."
"John the Savant?" she asked. "I'm sorry, it doesn't come to mind."
John raised an eyebrow. "Really? John the Enchanter? No... pity. Well it's no matter. I think I'm done here, I should make my way back to my estate and... what is it?"
She stifled a giggle and said, "I don't think you want to be walking out like that, milord."
John's brow furrowed and then he glanced down again. He sighed. "Damn thing won't go down, it seems. I haven't woken up like this in quite a while. I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed or proud of myself."
