"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle, and quick to anger."

When you're a wizard, you're generally expected to either be a complete nutjob, or one of the most powerful beings on the planet. You're supposed to hold the answers to life itself in the palm of your hand, and be able to strike down kings with a single word and whisper. We hold that air of mystery that becomes necessary for our own survival.

So I should be able to answer why I'm in a new world populated by mythical creatures, why there are two other humans here who hate my guts, and why I decided to get involved with a plan that could potentially end life as we know it. I should be able to answer all of that.

But all I can really say? "I blame magic."