Bang bang bang.

Batts awakenes to total destruction. His room appears to have done battle with a pack of clawfiends. And worse - it lost.

Bang bang bang.

“Mr Marbeq? Mr Marbeq? We've had reports of screaming. More so than the usual.”

Batts rubs his eyes and casts about for anything overtly incriminating. A heavily chewed desk. The smell of seared meat. The remains of some familiar blood-red text linger upon the walls, smudged out of all proportion. Squinting, he can just about parse: “I MILLED MY OWN LAGER”. Lager? But you don't even mill lager!

“Mr Marbeq! Mr Marbeq! I must insist that you open this door at once.”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Batts smacks his lips. Wood - fruit - fabric - and the unmistakably metallic tang of mana.

He remembers. And then - he opens the door.

“Bursar…dreadfully, terribly sorry for the unnecessary alarum…you see…I was performing a most exciting new ritual and, ah, well. It didn't work out exactly as my extensive predictions would have pre-indicated.” He gestures at the room. “As you can see.”

The Bursar sighs. This was hardly an unusual event, especially where Marbeq was concerned. He raises a finger - makes as if to say something - but then thinks better of it. What was the point in reprimanding the mage? It was like reprimanding a tidal wave. And, besides: Batts cooked for free, and the People's College needed the Riel.

“Very well, Mr Marbeq. You may go about your business.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Bursar. If I may, let me express my sincere - hryuetgfh.”

Batts' tongue appears to have grown several inches. And turned yellow.

“Is that…a scarf?”

“Do excuse me. Hairball.”