Futura inserted a peppermint stick into the candy keyhole and turned it, locking his front door. An elven wizard, Futura defies tradition and lives in a gingerbread house, a confectionary architecture style typically favored by witches.

This is perhaps the only non-wizardry thing about Futura, who otherwise keeps the traditions attributed to magical scholars deep in his heart.

A snowball hit Futura on the back and the sound of howling laughter filled the surrounding forest. “Good morning, master wizard,” a voice rang out, its owner having vanished before the ensuing volley of retaliatory magic was inevitably cast.

“I will get you yet, Mushroom!” Futura snarled as he dusted the snow from his cloak. He glowered as he headed into the forest for the day’s work: researching wintertaste fungus.

Like many wizards, Futura spends much of his time researching extremely nuanced aspects of the area surrounding his home, measuring enchantments and their effects on the local environs and developing new ways said magic could be harvested.

And like many adventurers living near a wizard, Mushroom, a forest gnome, spends much of his time tormenting Futura.

That evening, upon returning home, Futura brewed a pot of onyxcrush coffee and laid out the notes he had taken. One pot of coffee, two cubes of precisely measured sugar, one small pitcher of icecloud cream, one spoon, one saucer, one cup, one journal, one inkwell. Futura is so regimented his clock chimes all retired years ago, there is simply no need to announce the time when routines do not waver.

The wizard sat down in the study’s sole chair and poured one of the three cups of coffee he would drink and began to review his notes.

“Mushroom.” Futura glowered. He set his research aside and started pacing the room. “The gnome must be dealt with, these distractions are mounting.”

From a small cubby on the south wall, Futura withdrew a scroll and cast an Illusion of One Whom is Known spell, summoning an image of his feisty forest foe. The scroll, its magic spent, burned to ash-less smoke. In another room, a ledger automatically catalogued the scroll’s use and ordered a replacement.

It wasn’t until the logs in the fireplace popped that Futura realized he had been staring at the illusion’s summer-warm brown eyes. Futura caught himself smiling with a startle. Annoyed, he waved his hands frantically through the illusion, dissolving it.

The eyes faded last.

The next morning, on schedule, twelve minutes after sunrise, Futura turned the peppermint key into the candy keyhole and locked his gingerbread front door and, on schedule, Mushroom threw snowballs — but they went through Futura cleanly.

“What is this?” Mushroom called out merrily.

“YOUR DOOM!” Futura cried out, bringing down an entire cloud’s worth of snow onto the gnome. The “Futura” at the door flickered then vanished. An illusion.

Mushroom, howling with laughter, climbed out of the pile and slowly got to his feet — just as Futura himself was knocked down with a snowball hurled from another, unseen, party. Mushroom laughed louder than before, grabbing onto a tree to steady himself. Unfortunately for Futura’s dignity, Mushroom’s belly laughs shook the tree so hard a batch of snow fell on him, and at this, Mushroom guffawed so deeply he fell over into the snow, rolling around on his back.

“What was that?!” Futura demanded!

“Your doom, apparently, master wizard,” Mushroom giggled as he began making a snowball.

“That was the good miss Strawberry, and undoubtedly her wife, Red Leaf, not far behind. We best prepare a counter attack if we are to survive and drink cocoa later,” he gasped, mirthfully and breathlessly.

“On the same side?” Futura involuntarily brightened at the idea of participating in a snow war. For the first time, ever, his notes and work were forgotten, left to wait in his satchel and scroll tubes. “Together?” he asked tentatively, his voice a half-octave higher, cracking in anticipation.

None of this had been planned! In fact, this is the very opposite of his plans! You can’t just have an unscheduled moment of spontaneity!

Mushroom winked and handed him a snowball. “It’s a date!”

Futura paused a moment, watching Mushroom run in the direction of the unseen Strawberry and Red Leaf. “Date?” he repeated, with a soft smile and a softer tone. His reverie was short lived.

“We best run! They will have a fortified snowbank nearby, we must catch them before they reach it!” Mushroom called back.

Direct action, now clear, Futura adjusted his winter cloak and reviewed his prepared spells, mentally sorting them into a list ordered by situational novelty.