Griskell, Part 1 (campfire piece)

You may need to read the rest of the campfire creative, you may not, it depends on your taste for seeing the big picture. It's called To Quell the Fire (referenced on my portfolio page because I don't know how to do it here).
This first part probably doesn't need to have much introduction. Vala is a character written by another contributor, and I stole the village she wrote about, and placed my character within it. Where it goes from here, of course, is anyone's guess.

Here goes:
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Griskell chuckled delightedly at his private little artwork. Masters can’t paint with oil and canvas what I can do with living matter. He lifted himself off the dirt floor of his sanctuary to examine his handiwork more closely. With an innocuous flick of his finger, he increased the illumination within the cave. Floating above the floor was what Griskell called one of his sculptures.
He had animated ocean water taken from the pool within his cave and delicately stretched it into a thin plane. He had formed into a circle about 2 feet in diameter, and angled it perpendicular to the floor. It glistened and shone, rippling with the momentum of the surf still ebbing and flowing through it. Tiny waves glistening on a mirror-like surface of waves, crashing onto an invisible beach of surrounding air.
Something more, something incandescent.
He snapped his fingers and a candle on the floor sparked a flame upon its wick. Griskell paused momentarily. I should try it again, I need constant practice with telekinesis. He turned his attention toward the candle, leaving his miniature flat lagoon to float beside him. He sighed deeply, relaxing his arms to his side. Palm outward, he held his left arm before him in the direction of the candle. With his right arm rigid at his side, he first flexed his wrist so that his fingertips aimed at the candle. It shook slightly, as though brushed slightly by a passing cat. Then Griskell bent his elbow slowly, raising his forearm away from his torso, aligning his wrist to flow seamlessly with the arm. The candle shuddered briefly and began to rise from the floor into the air.
Griskell opened one eye, pleased at the fluid motion of the candle gracefully floating upward. He relaxed his thoughts, and pictured in his mind the role of this little flame in his artwork. “Come with me, my puppet” he said cheerfully. Walking to the floating circle of water, Griskell waved his right arm gently toward the object, and the seemingly obedient candle glided above the cave floor to him.
“Whatever shall we do with your wax, little dear?” he inquired. “I don’t need it to keep you burning, of course, and it’s entirely too bulky for the delicate image I wish to form here…”
He mused over possibilities with himself, a wisp of an idea anchoring itself in his mind, “Ah, that’s a nice thought,” he said.
Griskell whispered a few charmed words, and a small orange light began glowing around the tip of his left index finger. “Burn at both ends” he directed of his obedient candle-servant, and he tapped the floating candle quickly, as if awakening some long slumbering faerie. In a flash, the wax hissed and bubbled, the flame atop the candle was greeted by a fresh fire underneath. Griskell turned his right wrist, rotating his hand 90 degrees, the candle dutifully mirroring the motion, and thus the two flames burned at opposite ends, parallel to the floor.
Griskell then inhaled deeply, and placing both hands behind him, blew on the little candle as a child would blow on flames atop his birthday cake. The flames grew taller and many times their size. The flames hissed down each side of the wick, burning towards one another, sending wax dripping down to the sandy floor below. Griskell laughed again. “Yes, yes, you’re a good piece with which to work,” he said. “Were you made by the Gnomes, then?” But Griskell’s mechanation needed to be complete, for his other duties seeped into his mind. He snapped the fingers on his left hand and the wick within the candle erupted, melting the wax between each end as though it were ice flung into the heart of the sun. The wax collapsed in a wave toward the sand below, cooling as it fell, and hardening so that it was a thick husk on the ground.
Griskell nodded to himself, “Yes, sometimes I do make a mess, indeed.”
Focusing again on his sculpture, Griskell waved the candle wick, now a solid string alight with a gently burning flame, toward the ring of water. The wick approached delicately, one end piercing the thin sheet of water, a puff of steam rising upward and away. The end of the wick began to burn again as soon as its end had penetrated the liquid. Griskell turned the entire construct to a 45 degree angle and prepared to leave. Gathering his rucksack from his bedside, he lifted the weight of it onto his shoulders and studied again his artwork. Four feet from the cave floor, toward the rear where the ocean entered his subterranean refuge, floated a tiny artwork that fascinated no one but himself. The two-dimensional sheet of water, the tide alive within flowing from center to rim, a candle wick burning peacefully within the grasp of its mortal enemy, the loving water mirroring the beautiful yellow flame on each side of its silky sheer surface.
Griskell waved his open hand in a circular, and his sculpture began to rotate in the air.
“Much more alive,” he said.
Griskell stepped onto his teleportation circle, closed his eyes, and thought of a single word, “Blink.”
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He opened his eyes and found himself atop another such circle in his private room in the cramped attic of the Shore, Sea, and Land inn. He opened the blinders over his window to see the orange, red, and purple hues of a fading day glistening through his mirrored glass. The glass prevented clear sight to the outside, but of more importance, no clear sight to within.
Griskell, the wielder, was satisfied with a great deal more humility than many a master mage might be, even today, when secrecy and subterfuge were tools not only of deception, but of survival. His tiny attic was cramped and small, with a little bed, a rather well-worn rocking chair, an oil lamp, and of course, a bookshelf lined with the few tomes he studied in this room.
His true home was the cave. The cave itself was a league or so down the shore southward, among the Seafang Rocks, where horse could not tread, and sailors feared to navigate. Not even a lighthouse could stand atop those jagged rocks. The cave’s only material entrance ran under the sea, through tumultuous ocean tides, and Griskell had needed the help of another wielder to make it his home, both for the charming of a sea turtle to ferry him, and for the gills necessary to breathe undersea.
Where the cave was a study of his art, the Shore, Sea, and Land was a study of man, his species. Here, close enough to the Emperor’s seat of power, Griskell could keep abreast of any important happenings, and was far enough away in a forgotten shore-side traveler’s stop that few would ever have reason to look at Griskell twice.
Griskell unlocked the several different Gnomish locks that protected his abode from prying eyes, exited the room, and after resealing them, climbed down the teeny ladder that led to the third floor. He dusted himself off, and went to work in the inn.
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Griskell was a decent barkeep. Older than the owner, Griskell's personal story to passers-by was that he needed to be near ocean mists to keep his lungs healthy; he falsely laid claim to an obscure ailment, obtained during the the Emperor’s Succession War some 20 years prior that required moist air to alleviate (though it was true he had served in the Succession War, it had not been on the Emperor’s side, though that was seldom asked, and was never considered a serious transgression, as the Empire had been evenly divided over the several heirs with claims to the throne).
He chose the village of Oceanrest because it was small, he said, and quiet, and he was writing a tome of history in his off time. Griskell was a tutor many seasons for the local villagers who wanted their children to learn their letters. He was well liked, open enough with citizens and travellers as to not create any doubt about himself, and secluded enough there to keep his study of advanced magics progressing.
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When the armed young woman arrived, weary and somewhat bedraggled from travelling by foot, Griskell felt some sympathy for her. He procured for her two seasoned pork sausages and charged her for only the one, and he chose for her the fresher potatoes, leaving the softer ones for those self-congratulating nobles who passed through on occasion.
Griskell went about his business, minding the affairs of all patrons, puzzled by the woman's choice to travel afoot. Her equipment, especially her weapons, belied some affluence, and Griskell guessed there was some chance she was a Huntress. Still, he fed her well and saw to it that she could rest. It was a particularly loud night at the inn, with music and merrymaking borne of good rains for the farmers (and probably good winds for the sailors), and clearly, the woman wished only her own company. Griskell did not ask for her name; she seemed the kind to lie about it.
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Later that evening, when a lackey of the Emperor entered, the dyed plumes spiked arrogantly from his hat, Griskell focused on cleaning tankards. Griskell was disappointed when the messenger sat with the young woman, knowing it meant she was more likely a Huntress than not (though he wondered, why no horse? ), and he used his mind’s eye to take in their conversation. A harmless, undetectable cantrip carried Griskell’s perceptions to the empty chair at their table.

“Pardon me Ma’am.” the lackey said almost harmlessly, “But you wouldn’t be the hunter Vala Tamasine would you?” the man spoke.
Vala Tamasine, Griskell thought. No, I do not know such a name, nor any lineage to which it might be connected. Whether that was a sign to be seen as relief or as danger, Griskell did not contemplate.

“And if I am?” Vala responded.
“Then I shall escort you to the palace to meet with the Emperor. He is in need of services such as Vala Tamasine’s,” the servant said. Indeed, the emperor will never have enough Hunters, Griskell thought.
“Sit and have a drink,” Vela said cheerfully, “It’ll be awhile before I am ready to leave.”
“Then you are Vala Tamasine,” the man said.
Vala nodded and said “Sit.”
“This is of dire importance…” the man implored of her.
“As is this,” Vala said, raising her tankard before his impatient eyes. Griskell let a small chuckle escape his lips across the room which no one noticed. Good girl, take the lead of him now, and keep it… It may yet be your redemption.
“You are?” Vala asked him.
“Vance McCaffery,” he replied.
“Well, Vance, have an ale!” Vala clapped her hands twice in the air, beaming a smile at Griskell, which he returned kindly. He took a clean tankard and filled it with ale, bringing it dutifully to their table, and said “Anything else for the lady and the Empire’s man?” a tone of reverence in his voice.
Vance shook his head dismissively, saying nothing. Vala smiled at the old bartender who had treated her so warmly “You’ve been a dear, barkeep, what was your name?”
Griskell pondered for a moment, whether to lie. But few things merited dishonesty, and his was not a name that had enemies. “Ages ago, they called me Griskell, ma’am,” he said warmly. “Here, , they call me Grizzly,” he paused a moment, as if building anticipation, then continued “Not for the bear, nor for its ferocity.” He turned to return to the bar, saying before he left them, “Only for these grizzled old lungs that keep me bound to this place, my seaside, treasured home.”
Griskell went back to work. Late in the night, when he locked the doors of the tavern and checked in on the fires in the common room where Vala slept peacefully, Griskell hoped he would never see her again.