Pan Post 99 takes place circa 10,000 B.C. in Britannia where Doughnutdelf, beneath Stonehenge, has become a thriving community for magic. Belshaggath, the founder, is eating doughnuts though argues with everyone that it should be donut. His wife, Dinkersmell, was a pixie and had a much shorter lifespan than any human so she died many years ago. Now he is met by one of his granddaughters, Siobhell, who informs him that someone is trying to summon him. He attends the summoning to find a plot-hole and the voice of his old master, Magistarr. Magistarr conveys the mantle of NeSorcerer unto Belshaggath due to his great wisdom.
The Second NeSorcerer
Britannia surges with magic and life and prosperity. Fairies and faeries roam the land, streaming through the portal from Albion that is Stonehenge. Beneath Stonehenge lies the cavernous city of Doughnutdelf, where a new order of wizards known as Druids has trained.
Belshaggath: Where's my donut?
Apprentice Druid: Shouldn't that be 'doughnut'?
Belshaggath: Don't get cheeky with me!
Baker: How can you hear the spelling he uses?
Apprentice Druid: Oh, Master Belshaggath has trained us very well. We are highly attuned to words, due to our mastery of runes.
His bored voice contradicts his statement.
Baker: Here is your doughnut.
Belshaggath: Don't you be cheeky too!
Belshaggath: Nevermind. Thanks!
He chows down. Now middle-aged, the portly master of the druids is steeped in learning, though he still remains magically weak, more so than every last one of the druids he trained. But he is wise and knowledgeable, and catalogued much of the new order of magic, in the wake of the Atlantean ultranexus' destruction.
Siobhell: Grandpa! Grandpa! Come quick!
Belshaggath takes another bite of his doughnut--
--and turns to face his granddaughter. Pixies age far more quickly than humans, typically living no more than 10 years. Belshaggath's beloved wife Dinkersmell died 15 years ago, but left behind many half-pixie children, and now grandchildren as well.
Belshaggath: I'm still eating breakfast.
Siobhell: How can you tell? You eat doughnuts--
Siobhell: --at every meal, they're all the same! Anyway, sorry, Grandpa, but a giant pit opened up in the middle of Stonehenge! There's a voice coming up from it calling your name!
Belshaggath: Ugh, it's probably some cultist mispronouncing Yog-Sothoth again and summoning me instead.
He trudges out of the cavernous city where the doughnut bakeries are in full swing 24/7, and emerges into the open sunlight. The portal of Albion is a large glowing oval, and now hovers over a great black hole in the ground beneath the megalithic structure of Stonehenge.
Voice: Belshaggath, heed me!
Belshaggath: Oh, what do you know, it really does want me. Here I am, stranger, and who are you?
Voice: No stranger to you, my apprentice.
Belshaggath: Master Magistarr???
Voice: No longer he, but the Plot-Hole Wizard now. I cannot leave this plot-hole now, so you must come to me.
Belshaggath: You couldn't have waited till after supper?
Siobhell: I thought it was breakfast?
Belshaggath: Whatever, they're all the same anyway.
Magistarr's Voice: I am not yet strong enough to keep this plot-hole open for long. Come while there is time.
Belshaggath: As you say.
He descends into the plothole, and is surrounded by blackness, and standing on it. His old master, Magistarr - onetime court archmage and NeSorcerer of Atlantis - stands there, smiling secretively at him.
Belshaggath: Master, I thought you were dead!
Magistarr: That is not the case, as you can see. You have done well, my apprentice. Forged an alliance between faeries, fairies, and men; built a city; trained new mages; codified the new laws of magic.
Belshaggath: And made lots of donuts!
Magistarr: And that. There is a reason they call you, their leader, the Olykoek Oligarch.
Belshaggath: Thank you, master. But why reveal yourself now?
Magistarr: With another question shall I answer yours. Tell me, Belshaggath - why did you focus the training of your druids in the art of runes?
Belshaggath: Runes are written magic, and you always taught that we live in a narrative world. If our very world is a written existence, then written magic is the most potent of all magicks.
Magistarr: And that is why I have appeared to you now. I declare you my successor - you are the new NeSorcerer.
Belshaggath: But - why me? Did Shinzallar and the others perish?
Magistarr: Nay, but while they may be stronger than you, none are wiser. You have grasped the nature of the cosmos in a deeper understanding than they ever will.
Belshaggath: I am humbled, Master, but - if you are still alive, why do you need to pass on the mantle? Did the Ancient One not intend you to be his immortal and eternal NeSorcerer?
Magistarr: He intended many things, and it seems most if not all of them are for naught. I have failed in my role, and so I pass it down to one more worthy. Nurture the narrative, save the story, and protect the palisades of poetry.
Belshaggath: And use lots of alliteration?
Magistarr: Then, my apprentice, I pass on to you - the NeSpell!
Later, Belshaggath emerges from the plothole, wearied by the transfer of power. The plothole shuts behind him.
Siobhell: Grandpa, is everything alright?
Belshaggath: Yes. I'll explain shortly. But first I need a donut.
Siobhell: Isn't it 'doughnut'?
Belshaggath: The cheek!