Trog's Tavern CLIII

[Rebonack]

"Well, I'm wholly lacking in the criminal record department, to my knowledge," Ib'bahali replies. "I've mostly devoted my time here to my studies and disrupting cultist networks via largely non-violent means. You might be surprised just how much damage a carefully placed bit of misinformation can do when it comes to eldritch summoning rituals."

Instead of the dimension of horrible tentacle monsters you get the dimension of totally harmless kittens.

The horror.

"I suppose I ought to make a point of visiting and turning in an application. Getting a bit more official support in dealing with some of the present cultist situations would be fortuitous to everyone involved. The cultists included. After all, things from the other side of the veil have that nasty habit of eating people who summon them."

Makes one wonder why they do it, does it?

"That they are, my friend. That they are. More often than not it isn't due to any fault of their own. The Great Old Ones have an uncanny ability to worm their way into people's minds. Twist their desires to make them more amiable to the unspeakable being's goals. They're often innocents in the whole mess, insofar as anyone can be an innocent. Sometimes they're too far gone to help, but I'm proud to say that I've managed to lose at least a few from the ravenous clutching shadows."

Huh.

Seems Ibby is one of those guys that pointedly avoids killing people. Must not be much of a basher.

[Morty]

"Aye, though just as often all it takes is someone who's desperate enough for somethin' they think not even fiends or Powers can give 'em," Michalson says. "Push a basher into a corner... you'll be amazed what he'll to do dig himself out've it. Seen it time and again."

[Rebonack]

"Egh. Hopefully not too many times and again," Ib'bahali sighs. "The veil is desperately thin here already. It really can't afford to have too many holes poked in it. Great Old Ones looming over us like a sadistic child with a magnifying glass. Fae eating up through the foundation like termites. And here we are in the middle, desperately trying to keep at least one little chunk of reality from coming unwound."

Then he adds with a smile. "I like our chances of success, though. I feel like we've been doing well."

A bit of inspiration strikes him as his eyes pass over a line in one of his books. He jots down a quick note to cross-reference that later. Maybe something he can use...

"What do you do for Intersection, exactly, mister Barring?"

More useful questions.

Hopefully with useful answers.

Getting an idea of what would be waiting for him before he dives in?

Valuable information.

[Morty]

"I'm a detective," Michalson says. "I sniff things out and learn the dark of 'em. Mundane and magical. I don't... do any magic myself, but I know it from the inside and out. I can twist it the way I want, or just shrug it off. Make me useful to the higher-ups, I hope. And I guess that makes me one of those schmucks trying to keep reality together. Heh. Who'd have thought, back in the day."

[Rebonack]

"I believe even the very selfish would do well in endeavoring to hold reality together," Ibby laughs. "It is, after all, where they keep their stuff."

Can't have things if things don't exist.

Can't acquire MORE things if things don't exist, either.

"A detective? That's fascinating. I like to think that my reasoning skills are top notch, but I must admit my magical inclination might cause me to rely a bit much on intuition. I'm hardly a typical wizard myself. I don't have any talent when it comes to slinging about fireballs or turning people into newts. All of my skill revolves around the procurement and manipulation of information. I imagine my skills would be a boon to someone with strong deductive skills such as your own."

Detectives need information to begin building on, after all.

And getting information is sort of Ibby's whole thing.

"You said that you're good at bending spellwork? So less abjuration in the proper sense and more a knack for resilience? A stubborn refusal to yield?"

That sounds like a handy trick to have.

[Morty]

"Mostly it's about readin' it and knowing how to poke it so it breaks or does what I want," Michalson says. "Direct the flow, I guess. It's as much study as intuition. Other than that, I've got some tricks I picked up from a pack o' bashers on a world far away. They had a beef with dazzlers and learned how to deal with 'em."

[Rebonack]

"Fascinating," Ibby replies, his tone suggesting not even a hint of sarcasm there. He actually thinks that's really cool.

What a nerd.

"I imagine, then, that's a skill most anyone could learn? The sort of thing where plenty of rigorous practice is sufficient to master it?" he asks. "Eschewing, of course, natural talent. Some people are simply better gifted for some things."

Ain't that the truth. He's pretty sure he'll never be more than a lean, bookish sort of fellow.

Given the degree of danger in Ibby's line of work, especially when cultists are involved, he's made a point of being reasonably fit. One never knows when one will be forced to run away. And being able to run away is a matter of life and death when one can't fly or teleport or leap tall buildings in a single bound. He does have a bicycle, at least. The humble contraption is currently locked up outside Trog's. It isn't the first one he's acquired, either. Sadly the last one was stolen when he was in one of the less wholesome neighborhoods of the city.

No doubt by mimes.

Dreadful creatures, mimes.

[Morty]

"Aye. Nothin' special about me. My da' says my ma' was a sorceress. I don't really think there's anything to it, but either way, not a drop o' magic in me," Michalson says. "The bashers I ran with used tricks that relied on the right state o' mind. Focusin' all that ye are on the spell and willin' it... not to be. They were better at it than I am because they hated all dazzle and spellslingers like you wouldn't believe. Can't quite muster up that righteous anger. And they used drugs. Which my superiors frown on now, so I can't use those anymore. But I still manage. And my other skills is just a lifetime of pokin' around."

[CosmicHobbit]

"Sounds good." Erasmus grabs one more drink for the road, then is ready to go as well.

Lynx stands up and turns around. He suddenly says, "Wait," turns back around, takes his other shot, puts money for one shot on the table, and spins around once more. "Now I'm ready."

So I assume we'd be going to The Mispelled Cemetary, unless you had another place filled with the undead in mind?

[Rebonack]

"You know, I've been working on a unified model of magic for some time now. Except for a few very specific outliers, it all comes down to imposing one's will on the world around them. The precise way in which this is accomplished varies widely from place to place, but the underlying concept remains largely the same," Ib'bahali begins. It's pretty clear from his body language that this is a subject that excites him. He isn't dividing his attention between his books and Michalson any longer. He's sitting a little taller, his shoulders a little straighter, his eyes a little brighter.

What a nerd.

"The nexus muddles things a bit, of course. The translation effect that it layers over everything doesn't extend just to language. But also to concepts. So it can be difficult to resolve between true universal effects and what the nexus just happens to be skewing so that it falls more in line with my own home cosmology."

He'll keep going.

He really will.

"But I think I may have found a few ways to cut through that noise and get pure, reliable data. I, ah..." he purses his lips a bit. "Goodness, I was going off on a bit of rambling exposition there, wasn't I? I don't mean to bore you, sir."

And he's trying to be self conscious about it.

How nice of him.

[Morty]

Michalson waves his hand dismissively.

"Don't mind me. I'm too bubbed to mind, and besides it's more interestin' than what you usually hear in a place like this. Even if I'm more about practice than theory. Matter of fact, want to have a drink yerself?"

[Rebonack]

"I am partial to the aboleth absinthe," Ib'bahali admits. "Trog's is the only establishment that seems to get it right, in my experience. Everyone else serves it pre-mixed, the philistines."

What sort of dive would do that, anyway?

Absolutely abhorrent.

"And thank you for being willing to indulge me. It isn't often that I have an opportunity to discuss theory since most mages seem more interested in practice rather than theory. Everyone is so devilishly focused on results. You know, there are some worlds were people have stopped developing spells altogether? They simply learn those that already exist through rote memorization. It's dreadful," Ibby says. "Why, it wouldn't be dissimilar from painters deciding that they're only going to trace the work of the masters of days gone by. Or musicians playing nothing but covers. A stagnant world without new art, I can scarcely imagine it."

He sounds absolutely horrified at the mere thought of it.

"Which leaves me thankful to live here. There are always new things to learn in the Nexus. New insights to be had and new ways to approach problems. A lively place for sure, and nowhere like it that I'm aware of," he wistfully declares. "Though, I can imagine Sigil might come close but for the lack of divine beings traipsing around. That's the Sigil dialect you use, is it not? I visited there once. Quite an odd place, I must admit. And certainly bustling in much the same way Inside tends to be."

[KerfuffleMach2]

Across the tavern, Marco remains serious, even as the others converse with one another.

"Mm. Would you be willing to provide training, then?"

[Bar]

Darsy nods as she takes another swig of beer, finishing the bottle off.

Sure. I have a place in Inside. She reaches into a pocket in her pants and pulls out a simple business card, handing it over.

Swing on by. If I'm not there, I'll probably be here.

Any specific kind of training you're looking for?

[Morty]

"I am partial to the aboleth absinthe," Ib'bahali admits. "Trog's is the only establishment that seems to get it right, in my experience. Everyone else serves it pre-mixed, the philistines."

What sort of dive would do that, anyway?

Absolutely abhorrent.

"And thank you for being willing to indulge me. It isn't often that I have an opportunity to discuss theory since most mages seem more interested in practice rather than theory. Everyone is so devilishly focused on results. You know, there are some worlds were people have stopped developing spells altogether? They simply learn those that already exist through rote memorization. It's dreadful," Ibby says. "Why, it wouldn't be dissimilar from painters deciding that they're only going to trace the work of the masters of days gone by. Or musicians playing nothing but covers. A stagnant world without new art, I can scarcely imagine it."

He sounds absolutely horrified at the mere thought of it.

"Which leaves me thankful to live here. There are always new things to learn in the Nexus. New insights to be had and new ways to approach problems. A lively place for sure, and nowhere like it that I'm aware of," he wistfully declares. "Though, I can imagine Sigil might come close but for the lack of divine beings traipsing around. That's the Sigil dialect you use, is it not? I visited there once. Quite an odd place, I must admit. And certainly bustling in much the same way Inside tends to be."

"Good ear, cutter," Michalson says, raising his glass. "I do come from the finest anthill in the planes... or so I thought before coming 'ere. This burg really is a lot like Sigil. Only even crazier. And yes, lots of Ivories 'ere. Back home they dare not poke their noses on, for fear of the Lady."

[Rebonack]

"An understandable apprehension on their parts. Most folk are disinclined toward being eviscerated, divine or no," Ibyy laughs as his drink arrives. "Thank you Nina, it looks as splendid as ever."

An odd looking drink to sure. A rather strange little cup with the stem full of a violently green fluid. With it comes an odd little slotted spoon and a second glass full of water and crushed ice. Ibby takes the spoon and balances a hypercube of Far Realm sugar atop it, then empties the ice over the spoon and into the goblet.

The whole concoction whispers with eldritch secrets for a scant few seconds before settling into a cloudy white drink flashing with points of starlight.

Ibby continues stirring it.

"I was merely a tourist in Sigil for a spell. There was a quaint little bookstore that had procured a curious volume I was quite interested in," Ibby recounts. "I regret now that I didn't spend more time enjoying the sights."

[Earl of Purple]

Somebody enters. They're human, or look that way at least. They're quite young; maybe twenty, maybe two or three years either way; it's hard to tell. It's also pretty tricky to guess their gender, without knowing them already. They have grey eyes, short black hair, pale skin and a slender build. They're wearing a red chequered shirt, jeans and a pair of hiking boots, with a leather satchel bearing a stylised crow device on the flap over their shoulder.

They walk over to an unoccupied table and takes out a golden dice, looking at it a moment, before biting their lip and giving it a roll.

[Morty]

"An understandable apprehension on their parts. Most folk are disinclined toward being eviscerated, divine or no," Ibyy laughs as his drink arrives. "Thank you Nina, it looks as splendid as ever."

An odd looking drink to sure. A rather strange little cup with the stem full of a violently green fluid. With it comes an odd little slotted spoon and a second glass full of water and crushed ice. Ibby takes the spoon and balances a hypercube of Far Realm sugar atop it, then empties the ice over the spoon and into the goblet.

The whole concoction whispers with eldritch secrets for a scant few seconds before settling into a cloudy white drink flashing with points of starlight.

Ibby continues stirring it.

"I was merely a tourist in Sigil for a spell. There was a quaint little bookstore that had procured a curious volume I was quite interested in," Ibby recounts. "I regret now that I didn't spend more time enjoying the sights."

As deep in the bub as he is, Michalson can't help but be unsettled by Ibby's drink. Just what was it? And who is he?

"I grew up there. In the Hive, so not the kind o' place you go to see the sights. Or buy books. Unless they're of the unwholesome kind."

[Rebonack]

And so the die is a cast.

Not 'the die is cast'.

The die is a cast. Like what you would put on someone with a broken arm.

A cast with 868 written on it in a black sharpy.

The cast in question immediately launches out of the tavern through a window, a trail of smoke and flames blazing behind it.

And then?

Then something really weird happens.

The tavern is abruptly knee deep in sea water. And sailing on that suddenly appear sea? A bunch of teeny tiny little gallons crewed by cartoony looking germs. From the little puffs of smoke, it looks like two are firing on a third flying the jolly roger as it swiftly sails toward Jack's table. Another teeny pirate ship sets anchor near Ibby and Michalson, its crew piling into the lil'st longboats ever.

Ib'bahali was about to say something, but he's interrupted when his boots suddenly become wet. ...and when he discovers a crew of nearly microscopic treasure hunters climbing up his pant leg toward his satchel which contains a few fairly mundane silver dollars and quarters. "Go on, shoo!" he says, brushing at them. They reply with indignantcy, the words to muddled to make out. But it sure SOUNDS like they have pirate accents.

The bacterial buccaneers aren't to be dissuaded, so Ibby just places his satchel up on the table. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and takes a small sip from his drink.

"Being a logomagus, I have had contact with more than a few tomes that might be considered unwholesome," Ibby admits. Did he always have weird horizontally slit pupils like goat or a deer? Weird. "But my trip to Sigil was in search of a codex on history. Specifically from the ancient War of Law and Chaos. Not particularly unwholesome, but certainly fascinating. And, hah, I do wonder. Do you mean unwholesome in the sense of forbidden knowledge or unwholesome in the sense that it's fiction touching on subjects best left alone by polite company?"

Smut.

He's asking if Michalson was talking about smut.

"I didn't really look into- no, go away!" he says suddenly, trying and failing to get the diminutive pirates to leave him alone. "These aren't even doubloons, go bother someone else." He finally settles on grabbing a loose sheaf of paper (a reproduction of the pntokic manuscripts) and uses it to brush the pirates off the table and into the water. He frowns at them as they splash around helplessly before turning his attention back to Michalson. "I didn't really do much research into the various wards of Sigil. I take it the Hive was a, ah, less than upstanding neighborhood?"

[Hattish Thing]

[Bar]

Darsy nods as she takes another swig of beer, finishing the bottle off.

Sure. I have a place in Inside. She reaches into a pocket in her pants and pulls out a simple business card, handing it over.

Swing on by. If I'm not there, I'll probably be here.

Any specific kind of training you're looking for?

Marco graciously accepts, glancing towards the stylings of the card for a moment before placing it within a produced wallet, every gesture quite measured.

"Ideally, I'd gain the most value out of endurance training, I'd think."

"We can speak more about it during our appointment, I'd think. It's been a pleasure to meet you."

[Morty]

And so the die is a cast.

Not 'the die is cast'.

The die is a cast. Like what you would put on someone with a broken arm.

A cast with 868 written on it in a black sharpy.

The cast in question immediately launches out of the tavern through a window, a trail of smoke and flames blazing behind it.

And then?

Then something really weird happens.

The tavern is abruptly knee deep in sea water. And sailing on that suddenly appear sea? A bunch of teeny tiny little gallons crewed by cartoony looking germs. From the little puffs of smoke, it looks like two are firing on a third flying the jolly roger as it swiftly sails toward Jack's table. Another teeny pirate ship sets anchor near Ibby and Michalson, its crew piling into the lil'st longboats ever.

Ib'bahali was about to say something, but he's interrupted when his boots suddenly become wet. ...and when he discovers a crew of nearly microscopic treasure hunters climbing up his pant leg toward his satchel which contains a few fairly mundane silver dollars and quarters. "Go on, shoo!" he says, brushing at them. They reply with indignantcy, the words to muddled to make out. But it sure SOUNDS like they have pirate accents.

The bacterial buccaneers aren't to be dissuaded, so Ibby just places his satchel up on the table. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and takes a small sip from his drink.

"Being a logomagus, I have had contact with more than a few tomes that might be considered unwholesome," Ibby admits. Did he always have weird horizontally slit pupils like goat or a deer? Weird. "But my trip to Sigil was in search of a codex on history. Specifically from the ancient War of Law and Chaos. Not particularly unwholesome, but certainly fascinating. And, hah, I do wonder. Do you mean unwholesome in the sense of forbidden knowledge or unwholesome in the sense that it's fiction touching on subjects best left alone by polite company?"

Smut.

He's asking if Michalson was talking about smut.

"I didn't really look into- no, go away!" he says suddenly, trying and failing to get the diminutive pirates to leave him alone. "These aren't even doubloons, go bother someone else." He finally settles on grabbing a loose sheaf of paper (a reproduction of the pntokic manuscripts) and uses it to brush the pirates off the table and into the water. He frowns at them as they splash around helplessly before turning his attention back to Michalson. "I didn't really do much research into the various wards of Sigil. I take it the Hive was a, ah, less than upstanding neighborhood?"

"I meant the second part. Most of 'em were-" Then various nonsense starts happening. "Can we move to somewhere some berk didn't flood?"

[KerfuffleMach2]

Marco graciously accepts, glancing towards the stylings of the card for a moment before placing it within a produced wallet, every gesture quite measured.

"Ideally, I'd gain the most value out of endurance training, I'd think."

"We can speak more about it during our appointment, I'd think. It's been a pleasure to meet you."

Darsy gestures to the barstool next to her.

Hey, you're free to sit and have a drink with us. I'm gonna be here a while, anyways. We could talk here, and have good beer.

[Hattish Thing]

The figure pauses for a moment before glancing down at a rather ornate watch worn over his dominant wrist. After pursing his lips for a second or so, the suited figure shrugs before taking a seat, facing the counter. A few bills are passed along, and a little while later, a clear liquid is brought back.

"I suppose I've a few minutes, yeah. Sure."

"So, tell me about yourselves."

[Rebonack]

Various nonsense is just the worst.

"That's probably wise," Ibby agrees as he gathers up his things and heads toward the raised platform all the booths are built on.

His shoes are squishy now.

That's terrible.

But thankfully something he can address, since Trog's lacks a 'no shoes no service' rule. If it didn't then a pretty good chunk of its clientele wouldn't ever be able to buy anything! His damp shoes and soggy socks are set near the fire to dry. Perfect. Simple.

He takes another sip of his drink.

"You must have spent time in other wards of Sigil, yes?" Ibby continues. "Other parts of the city that are worth seeing the sights in? It would be rather nice to get a few suggestions in the event that I ever visit again."

He's not going to be forward as to ask Michalson to be a guide. He hardly knows the man, and he no doubt has plenty of important business to attend to.

Such as drinking until he's not thinking about whatever he saw recently any longer.

[Earl of Purple]

Jack pulls her feet from the water and climbs upon her table, a sheepish look upon her face as she watches the chaos she has inadvertently caused. It was considerably less fun than she was expecting, but it is at least amusing. Curious, Jack reaches off the side of the table and will try to scoop one of the tiny ships up in her hand, to examine it closely.

Hopefully it doesn't start to shoot at her. That would not be appreciated.

[Rebonack]

The ship in question is about the size of the sort one would typically find inside a bottle and the tiny germ-pirates are roughly the size of ants.

As soon as the ship is picked up, they begin shrieking at her in tiny, garbled voices. The words are incomprehensible, if they're even words, but the pirate accent to them is unmistakable.

And they DO begin firing on her!

But given that we're talking ant-sized pistols here, there likely won't be much effect.

No lack of trying, though!

As the ship is examined, Jack may note that the sail of the ship is, in fact, part of a treasure map.

Or at least it LOOKS suspiciously like a treasure map written on canvas.

Maybe there was more to this die result after all?

[Earl of Purple]

Huh. That's odd. The pistols don't do anything, but Jack puts the ship on the table and rips away the sail, gently shaking off any remaining germ-pirates. She'll take a paper napkin and drape that over the ship so they can use that instead, and puts the map-fragment into a pocket. She looks around for the furthest boat and starts to change. She shrinks, as feathers grow from her arms, back and head, through the clothes which disappear into her changing form. Her arms shift and alter, turning into wings as a tail emerges from her spine and her legs change shape and her boots splay out into a jackdaw's corvid talons. Her eyes change position, moving further round to the sides of her head, but otherwise remain the same, and her hair is the same shade of black as the feathers on the jackdaw's back.

Leaving her satchel where it is, she jumps off the table and flies towards the furthest ship, aiming to scoop it up with her feet and carry it to her table.

[Morty]

Various nonsense is just the worst.

"That's probably wise," Ibby agrees as he gathers up his things and heads toward the raised platform all the booths are built on.

His shoes are squishy now.

That's terrible.

But thankfully something he can address, since Trog's lacks a 'no shoes no service' rule. If it didn't then a pretty good chunk of its clientele wouldn't ever be able to buy anything! His damp shoes and soggy socks are set near the fire to dry. Perfect. Simple.

He takes another sip of his drink.

"You must have spent time in other wards of Sigil, yes?" Ibby continues. "Other parts of the city that are worth seeing the sights in? It would be rather nice to get a few suggestions in the event that I ever visit again."

He's not going to be forward as to ask Michalson to be a guide. He hardly knows the man, and he no doubt has plenty of important business to attend to.

Such as drinking until he's not thinking about whatever he saw recently any longer.

"I've wandered 'ere and there," Michalson says. "Course, a hive-rat like me wasn't welcome in more posh parts, like the Clerk's Ward or the markets. Never even saw a whiff of the Lady's Ward. Came back later as a proper planeswalker, which is a touch more respectable." He shrugs. "If it's knowledge of spellery ye want, the Market and Guildhall Wards are probably yer place. The Lower Ward, maybe. It's full o' workshops and factories."

[Rebonack]

The germ pirates make an even [i]bigger[/u] ruckus over the sail being stolen. Examined carefully, it appears to be not a map in and of itself, but rather part of one. Jack won't have much trouble snatching up another ship, given that they're at the mercy of the winds! And, frankly, there aren't that many winds in Trog's. Maybe they have tiny little wind wizards to blow their ships around? That would probably work. Once she brings it back to the table, the two pirate ships immediately begin firing on one another with their cannons. Apparently they consider rival pirates a bigger issue than the giant bird that's tormenting them.

This said is part of a map, too. Look to be nine tiny little ships floating around in the tavern, in total. Though given that a few of them are exchanging fire, it might be a good idea to go after those first in case they get damaged enough to sink. Sure the water is only up to an average human's knees at the deepest, but you don't want the treasure map to get wet! At least not if you can help it.

Meanwhile!

"It was a little shop in the Market, if my memory serves," Ibby replies with a small nod. "And a planeswalker, that's simply someone who has traveled off the plane of their birth? Or am I misunderstanding the term?"

He had met someone who used the term to mean something different before.

Rather nice fellow with a impressive hat who drew magic from the land. That would certainly be a useful trick to learn, but from what Ibby had gathered it's a sort of magic that people simply have or they simply don't. It's a bothersome distinction. Some magic is innate. Some magic must be learned, but still requires a certain spark. Some magic can be performed by anyone provided they perform it right. All parts of the puzzle.

[Earl of Purple]

Now that has Jack's interest. A treasure map? That sounds like it might be fun. Nine more pieces to get, and some are blasting each other? Well, those are a priority. Still a bird, Jack flies to the battling ships and snatches one- the one with the Jolly Rodger, that was being bullied by the other germ-sailors, who may have been navy? Jack doesn't know. Jack also doesn't particularly care- she might be having her first adventure! Well, besides the daily adventure of being essentially homeless and relying on low-level enchantments to keep your clothes clean.

Jack also shrank, so now she's only giant in relation to the tiny pirates. She's the size of a standard, Western Jackdaw.

[Morty]

The germ pirates make an even [i]bigger[/u] ruckus over the sail being stolen. Examined carefully, it appears to be not a map in and of itself, but rather part of one. Jack won't have much trouble snatching up another ship, given that they're at the mercy of the winds! And, frankly, there aren't that many winds in Trog's. Maybe they have tiny little wind wizards to blow their ships around? That would probably work. Once she brings it back to the table, the two pirate ships immediately begin firing on one another with their cannons. Apparently they consider rival pirates a bigger issue than the giant bird that's tormenting them.

This said is part of a map, too. Look to be nine tiny little ships floating around in the tavern, in total. Though given that a few of them are exchanging fire, it might be a good idea to go after those first in case they get damaged enough to sink. Sure the water is only up to an average human's knees at the deepest, but you don't want the treasure map to get wet! At least not if you can help it.

Meanwhile!

"It was a little shop in the Market, if my memory serves," Ibby replies with a small nod. "And a planeswalker, that's simply someone who has traveled off the plane of their birth? Or am I misunderstanding the term?"

He had met someone who used the term to mean something different before.

Rather nice fellow with a impressive hat who drew magic from the land. That would certainly be a useful trick to learn, but from what Ibby had gathered it's a sort of magic that people simply have or they simply don't. It's a bothersome distinction. Some magic is innate. Some magic must be learned, but still requires a certain spark. Some magic can be performed by anyone provided they perform it right. All parts of the puzzle.

Michalson waves his hand vaguely. The vagueness is enhanced by all the alcohol his head is swimming in.

"Not exactly. A planeswalker is an adventurer who makes a livin' traversin' the planes. Knows where to look for portals, how to survive in the planes.. the works. Not the kind o' job for the dumb, slow or unlucky."