Corbin jumps at the voice. “Where… Where are you? Who are you?” he asks, squinting into the darkness. He can make out a figure with wide shoulders standing near a tree. The figure flicks his hand, and the net dissolves. The raccoons hit the ground and run back into the brush, squeaking in fear. The figure brushes his hands together and turns around, starting to walk away. “Wait!” Corbin calls. “Where are you going?” The figure doesn’t respond. “Hello? You can’t just make shiny silver things appear in the air and then walk away,” Corbin argues, putting his hands on his hips. That makes the figure pause. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for… this. It was a mistake for me to help you,” the figure mutters. Corbin wrinkles his nose. “Rude,” he says. The figure continues to walk away. Corbin is about to sit down again, when something soft rubs up against his leg. Corbin gasps softly, looking down. A grey tabby cat looked up at him, with wide yellow eyes.
The cat blinked slowly, purring softly as she rubbed her head against Corbin’s leg. “Oh,” he says softly, staring at the cat. “Well, hello there.” He slowly bends down, not wanting to scare the cat, and holds out his hand. The cat sniffs his hand, and quickly flicks out her tongue to lick his skin. Corbin smiles widely at the affection the animal is showing him. He looks up, searching for the figure. His eyes catch onto some movement a couple metres away. The man is still there. He steps out from the shadows and waves a hand in front of him. As soon as he does that, a ball of light the size of a bowling ball appears above him. With the new light, Corbin can look at the stranger who saved him from the raccoons. The man is tall, at least five inches taller than Corbin. His hair is so dark, it’s almost black, even in the light. It sweeps down near his ears, parted in the middle. Behind circular, wire-rimmed glasses are icy grey eyes. A brown cloak is moving around in the wind, covering his wide shoulders. His pants are black, and look very fancy, far too fancy for a stroll in the woods. He is wearing a brown and grey sweater, rolled up to reveal glowing, silver tattoos on his forearms. A necklace hangs down from his neck, with an ornate ring threaded onto it.
Corbin stares at the man, in both awe and confusion. Before he can say anything, the man speaks. “Maebell, no. Come along now,” he says, staring at the cat. The cat, Maebell, turns and hisses at the man, before rubbing her head against Corbin’s leg again. The man sighs and walks up to Maebell and Corbin. “Mae, I don’t have time for this. We’re leaving,” he says harshly, talking directly to the cat. Maebell meows quietly, sitting down on top of Corbin’s foot. The man shakes his head and grabs the cat, scooping her up into his arms. Maebell hisses, trying to scratch the man. “No, I don’t care. We’re not doing that. I’m busy,” he said. Corbin furrows his brow. “Excuse me, sir, but are you… talking to the cat?” Corbin asks. The man raises an eyebrow. “I am having a conversation with her. You just can’t understand it. Good-bye. Don’t get killed.” The man turned on his heel and started to walk away, still muttering at his cat. “Wait,” Corbin says. He really doesn’t want to be left alone in the woods again. “What are you busy doing? Maybe… Maybe I could help? I don’t want to be out here alone. I can help you, if… if you help me? I really need it,” he says with a hopeful smile, grabbing his bag from the ground and running after the man. “What is your name, child?” the man asks, not stopping. “Uh, Corbin. Corbin Russon,” Corbin says, walking quickly to keep up with the man. “Hm. My name is Donovan Delina. I doubt you will be of any help to me. Unless you are more knowledgeable in the ways of magic than I am. Which again, I doubt,” Donovan says, no malice in his voice.
“You’re magic? Like Harry Potter? Are you Gandalf?” Corbin asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly. Donovan wrinkles his nose. “I am magic, yes. But I am not Harry Potter, nor Gandalf,” he says, disgusted at the thought. “You sound like Harry Potter,” Corbin retorts, putting his hands on his hips. Donovan stops walking. “Don’t call me Harry Potter if you want any chance of my help,” he says harshly. Corbin nods quickly. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Donovan seems satisfied with the answer, and continues walking. They walk in silence for a while, the only noise the crunch of leaves under their shoes, and Maebell’s quiet purrs and meows as she is carried.
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