Chapter 8

Raistlin was currently immersed in his studies (as usual) but his mind drifted occasionally to a certain cleric. He snarled inwardly. No, he was to disciplined for THOSE types of emotions. Plus, love and black-robed mages were an odd combination. Not to mention that of all people to bestow his affections on, it would be a white-robed cleric.

Oh, great. He just admitted, no, more like wrongly termed his….attention towards the white-robed cleric.

You're in love.

No, I'm not, heart. Shut up.

Tsk, tsk. Denial.

I. Am. Not. In. Love. With. Her. Don't. You. Understand. Plain. And. Simple. Common. (The language is Common, after all)

So what would you call that emotion when you kissed her in the forest? And you call yourself a brain!

Drop it. That's called impulse. Reckless action. Something to be regretted.

Oh, very funny. Seriously, brain, you are so clueless sometimes.

"NO!" he snarled. Good grief, he was having an internal argument with himself! Oh, that was it. White robed clerics spelt T-R-O-U-B-L-E. And he was going to stop thinking about her.

Starting NOW.

"Master, master…."

Oh great. The Live Ones. The last time they called him, it was to convey him messages from countless fangirls. Not that he ever was aware that he had any. Besides, didn't women get attracted more towards Caramon? Sadly, those messages were indeed for him, mostly consisting of marriage proposals, Valentine notes….. Let's just say that it was a traumatic experience. But quite flattering, all the same….not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, of course.

"What?" he snapped irritably. "What is it this time?"

"M-master, t-the c-c-cleric….."

He was alert. Crysania? What about her?

"Speak now and don't fumble like a feeble, stuttering fool!"

"M-master, s-she's…..i-i-injured…."

"What? By whom? Ye gods," he muttered. "Why do I care, anyway?"

And yet, the answer was clear. He would go and see her. His brows furrowed slightly, he muttered a magical incantation and, with a swish of his black robes, departed.