You, a mere apprentice, dare query my ceaseless pondering of this magic orb? I, Catamaran the Contemplative, Archmage of the Rapt Order, owe you no answers. You could not possibly perceive the dire imagery swirling within this sacred glass– Whoa, you can see all that?

Well, the orb will probably kill me someday, and as you too perceive its dire imagery, you’re now doomed to inherit my post. Pull up a chair, boy, and let old Catty hit you with some arcana.

I’ll be honest: I see some pretty messed-up stuff in this orb. I don’t let my face betray what I’m beholding because I’m a pro, and I like to maintain an air of mystery, but sometimes it’s just like, yeesh.

The worst thing I’ve ever pondered? Hard to say. Witnessing all of humanity enslaved and our cities and towns razed to the ground was grim. But the orb also shows me my parents having sex, which is much more upsetting.

I never ponder the orb right before bed, but then again, since I started pondering the orb, I never sleep.

The orb likes to keep me on my toes. Sometimes it conjures a mundane scene, like Melfax the Meticulous organizing his spell components in the neighboring tower (not that Melfax possesses the stones to actually cast a powerful spell).

The orb never lets me scry on someone cool, like Lenthariel the Leather-Clad. That reminds me: You should polish the orb at least once a week. If you don’t keep it shiny and clean, the orb gets testy, and it’s more likely to show you your parents bumping uglies.

Sometimes, betwixt horrors, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the orb, and I’m like, geez. I used to be fresh-faced and handsome, but after a week of pondering the orb my skin got all weathered and this big white beard shot out of my cheeks. I’m only 27, but everyone thinks I’m like a thousand years old.

You could at least feign disagreement.

The orb takes a toll, but it also sustains me: I no longer have to eat. I do still excrete waste, unfortunately, which is why there are several 64-ounce Gatorade bottles under my desk. Would you clean those out, by the way? It’s been months. (You can enchant a broomstick to do it for you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.)

What else? Oh, once in a while the orb catches fire and, in a crackling whisper, commands me to return it to its master—the Dark Lord intent on enslaving humanity and razing its cities and towns to the ground. But I just spray it with water and firmly say “No!” until it settles down.

The orb can be a bit of a scamp.

One time it was slow to load, and I jokingly said, “Reply Hazy?” The orb rolled off the desk onto my lap, smashing my nads. (It’s super-heavy, not that kids were really in the cards.) My predecessor, Broderick the Brokenhanded, threatened to take the orb bowling—you can probably guess how that turned out.

I don’t know what happens if I stop pondering the orb, but I bet it’s catastrophic. I’ll be bummed if this is all for nothing, like Locke pushing the button on Lost. Sorry, the orb shows me a lot of Lost reruns. That’s its second-favorite program, after my parents going to town on each other.

Maybe one day a band of heroes will come and enlist my aid in some grand quest. Or they’ll destroy the orb and me with it. Or none of that crazy crap, I don’t know. I’m just happy to have a job where I don’t have to talk to anyone or even attempt to make eye contact.

How astute—that was directed at you. This inane inquisition is over! Sit quietly in the corner, don your hood, and ponder a master ponderer at work.

But first take care of those Gatorade bottles.