the smuggler’s bible

Mamun

Mamun knocks his sprig of alderwood against the banister a few times to get all the eldritch particles flowing in the same direction, then brings it up into a stance of the fourth form, absolutely prepared to blast some spectres and ghoulies.

The crowd breaks for the exits, smashing windows and hurdling the sills before scampering out over the lawn toward the trees.

Which is actually pretty lucky. Mamun looks at his wand again and stuff it back in his pouch. “Oh, shit,” he says, fishing around for one with a warmer luster. “That was the beech. God, rookie mistake.”