What Maketh a Villain

What is it that makes a normal practitioner of magic bent on domination and cataclysmic world-ending levels of devastation? In other words, what makes one a villain? An interesting question for sure. Answering it would solve a lot of catastrophic problems and be best for everyone—except, perhaps, philosophers. Though, they have plenty of other questions to ponder besides this one.

Many intelligent people have given this a great deal of thought. Some pointed to nature, others to nurture. Some said certain individuals are born villains—innately disposed toward villainy—it was as simple as that. Others vehemently disagreed and said that villains are made.

The faculty and staff at the University of Magics and Mysteries of the Material and Immaterial World had their suspicions and theories. They believed that under the careful supervision of learned and moral instructors—upstanding members of the magical community—no practitioner of magic would become evil. They would have been properly taught otherwise. It was improper instruction that made one a villain—or so they claimed. They based their reputation and their school policy on it.

As such, their curriculum was specifically designed to teach would-be practitioners of magic the safe and responsible means of using their arcane gifts. It was also tailored to effectively eliminate those students who showed even the faintest hints of villainous tendencies from their school before they ever learned enough to become villains of any repute.

There were exceptions to the rule, despite their curriculum’s strict regulations. There always were. There was usually only one student every graduating class or so, but thankfully, there was always a classmate gifted enough in the use of magic to stop them from complete and utter world domination. Usually in a quite spectacular fashion, too. It’d probably make a good story. If it were written down, such a tale would be told in several installments. Maybe a trilogy.

But, despite the deviances, the University’s success rate in keeping its alumni records villain-free was quite impressive. They were quite proud of that fact, and so was everyone else. The University was in good standing with society and they were determined to keep it that way. Appearances were everything, after all.

The University of Magics and Mysteries of the Material and Immaterial World had an excellent faculty and staff, all of whom were masters of their respective trades. They were dedicated to teaching students how to use such arcane abilities safely and responsibly.

Magic wasn’t as easy as it looked, you know. It wasn’t as simple as waving a wand and muttering a few nonsensical words. No, magic was more complex and difficult than that. It could be said that there was a sort of science to it—if saying such a thing wouldn’t upset both Science and those who study it for being associated with magic.

The use of magic was dangerous work. It wasn’t the sort of cheap, imitation magic you’d find at a child’s 5th birthday party. No. The sort of magic taught at the University was the kind where, if one wasn’t careful, they could bring calamity and destruction and devastation down from the heavens.

Magic, of course, was a highly volatile craft. One missed phrase, word, or syllable in a spell’s incantation, and well, who knew what would happen? It was anyone’s guess.

At best, the spell wouldn’t work, and the thoroughly embarrassed practitioner would look to everyone else to have just been blabbering a host of incoherent phrases full of nonsensical words. They’d be given a wide berth by society and perhaps even avoided altogether.

At worst, if a spell’s incantation was misspoken, that could cause a magical explosion the equivalent of several tons of blasting powder. The foolish practitioner—along with anyone else unfortunate enough to be within the magical explosion’s blast radius—would be instantaneously vaporized. Hopefully. Theoretically. No one has ever experienced this and lived to tell of it, so practitioners of magic all just assumed it to be the grisly result.

There were other possibilities of consequences that might occur, somewhere in between the best- and worst-case scenarios described. magic was like the weather, after all. It was unpredictable, and no practitioner worth their salt would ever claim to know exactly what it’ll do. A misspoken spell might result in a harmless flash of pink light, blue smoke, and pleasant sounds, or it might turn everyone within fifty miles into gerbils. Who knew? Best not to meddle in such things altogether. That’s what most sensible folk would say.

Practitioners of magic were many things, but sensible was not always one of those attributes used to describe them. After all, what sane person wanted to knowingly dabble with such an unstable force? I’ll tell you who—practitioners of magic. Like moths to a flame, they flocked in droves to magic and didn’t care that they ran the risk of being burned in the process. They knew the stakes were high. That was why students learned and practiced such magics safely under the watchful eyes and careful supervision of their instructors in a controlled environment.

Why teach that sort of magic, you ask? Great question. Just because someone knows how to summon lightning from the sky doesn’t mean they should. That’s what I always say. But that was why the responsible use of magic was also taught at the University. That portion of the curriculum was covered in the Ethics and Morals of Magic class.

Guest lecturers included the once-world-reviled, now-enlightened-and-shown-the-error-of-his-ways, Necromancer Kaen the Terrible.

He was once an incredibly gifted Necromancer, but an all-around terrible human being. His book, Why You Shouldn’t Re-Animate the Dead, was held in high regard by the academic community and was included in the required reading material for the course at the University.

Other required books included: The Morality of Magic, Ethics In Magic: Do They Really Exist? and the ever-popular autobiography, Vilified: My Road To Recovering From Being The Evil One, by a former unnamed, dark lord.

In addition to those curriculum requirements, as stated beforehand, the University also sought to eliminate would-be villains from among the ranks of their student body. That began with a careful and thorough psychological interview even before admission to the University. If at any point in the interview, a potential candidate used the phrase “I want to use magic to destroy my enemies”, they were quickly dismissed. Other phrases were also trigger words, but that was the obvious one.

Next came Orientation. In a gut-churning speech given by the Headmaster of the University, the consequences and ramifications of the misuse, or improper use of magic were explained in vivid detail. That included, but certainly was not limited to, the potential instantaneous vaporization of one’s body. That was a part of the speech the Headmaster particularly enjoyed embellishing.

The speech itself ran about twelve minutes in its entirety, and the Headmaster knew it by heart. Usually around the nine-minute mark—when the Headmaster recounted the graphic description of what spontaneous magical combustion looked like—was when two-thirds of the incoming students would leave the auditorium looking pale and squeamish. Some looked for trashcans, others simply bolted for the University’s main doors. None returned to the auditorium, dropping out before they even started.

The speech was the Headmaster’s way of thinning out the crowd of hopeful practitioners of magic. magic was not for the weak of will or stomach. It was also a great way to keep the class sizes low and under the ratio of teacher to student—which kept the faculty and the University’s board of directors happy.

Besides that, students were keenly observed throughout their years at the University. If at any point in time, they looked to be developing villainous tendencies, their memories were wiped of all magic they’d learned, and the students themselves were expelled immediately. They usually found themselves working on farms or in the mines. Consumed with hard, physical labor, they never gave magic another thought.

Very few students were wiped of their memories and expelled. Some, however, left of their own volition and kept their memories of magic. Such drop-outs were deemed “non-threatening” by the faculty and staff, having not learned enough magic to be of any real threat to society at large. They were, however, watched closely to make sure they weren’t using magic in an unsafe or irresponsible manner or otherwise giving the University a bad name. Appearances were everything, after all.

It should be noted that the majority of the University’s students did graduate, many with high marks. The University was a prestigious school, and its students were often offered lucrative jobs before they even received their wand, class ring, and diploma.

The wand was symbolic. Practitioners of magic didn’t require a wand to use magic any more than a doctor needed to use a stethoscope to practice medicine, but they both became tokens associated with the trade. The class ring was simply the University Bookstore’s way of staying fiscally stable—no more than a cheap ring with a shiny stone embedded in it sold for five time’s its worth. The diploma was really just a piece of paper with a seal and some fancy writing on it, but it looked great hanging on an office wall. But that’s all tangential.

The lucrative jobs—practically handed to the graduates—were often offered by kings and queens, or powerful lords and ladies with vast sums of wealth and promises of competitive rates, benefits, and insurance. To have a practitioner of magic in one’s employ was considered a mark of importance in high society. To not, was the social equivalent of a knight going to a tournament without their arms or armor. They’d suffer public humiliation and endless ridicule from everyone around. They’d be finished; their days of being a knight come to a bitter end. So, too, of rulers without a practitioner of magic kept on retainer. Most saw it as inexcusable to not have one in their employ.

“No two craftsmen are given the same gifts, even in the same trade.” That is true of all trades—even the trade of magic. Some graduates were exceptional, some competent, and a slight, embarrassing few were woefully inadequate who somehow managed to just barely pass all their classes. We’ll focus on those individuals later.

As such, the top graduates of the University of Magics and Mysteries of the Material and Immaterial World were sought after by rulers like prized show animals, talented athletes, or award-winning wine tasters.

As was true of all those unconnected examples, it was an indisputable fact that some graduates were simply ranked higher than others. Some got the grades, and others didn’t. The best of the best were fought over by the rulers—the first fruits of the class. The rest were the left-overs, those deemed inferior practitioners of magic.

Once the best among them signed employment contracts with the highest bidders, the rest of the graduates were frantically pursued. Like the last, poor child chosen for a game, no one wanted the lowest-ranked members of the graduating class. However, the thought of having no practitioner of magic at all was unthinkable. An inferior practitioner was better than none at all.

And so, such seemingly lesser graduates would also receive jobs among the kings and queens and lords and ladies. Such positions would be offered almost begrudgingly and with little to no benefits. Most usually without vacation time. But the offers were accepted, nonetheless.

They had to make a living, after all. Because contrary to common thought, practitioners of magic can’t just make money or food appear out of thin air. That’d go against the Rules of Nature. And while magic has its own set of Rules to abide by, those Rules fall under a subset of the Rules of Nature—seeing as magic is, in fact, a part of Nature.

No one ever wanted an inadequate, incompetent practitioner of magic, though. Those select few were reviled by all, students and faculty alike. They were treated with such disdain that they weren’t even included in the class photograph. They were graduates in name—but barely that.

They were the rare, odd birds who made it through all their classes, leaving their instructors bewildered—wishing that they could flunk them out of spite—and their classmates flummoxed—incensed that such individuals would dare call themselves practitioners of magic. And in this treatment, a terrible pattern began to develop. A pattern that no one seemed to notice.

You see, some practitioners of magic who graduated from the University of Magics and Mysteries of the Material and Immaterial World were well-known. Many went on to do un-villainous, heroic deeds of great renown and valor. Their deeds of bravery ranked them among the heroes of old. Many stories could be told about them and their various exploits. The University was proud to call them “alumni.” Indeed, they went on the University’s hallowed, Wall of Fame.

However, there were other practitioners of magic that the University would rather not be associated with. These were the ones who scored the lowest marks in all of their classes at the University. And while the University did bestow upon them their wand and diploma, they were told in no uncertain terms that they were not to walk across the stage or take part in the graduation ceremony in any way. Better for everyone that way. Well, everyone else, that was. They couldn’t have the University’s stellar reputation marred by a few, less-than-qualified graduates. That’d be an embarrassment to the institution’s fine name. Appearances had to be kept up, after all.

Strangely enough, many of those ostracized students—few as there were—did not take kindly to this sort of cruel treatment. Some went on to become vile practitioners of magic—great and terrible tyrants of small towns and villages. They turned their backs on the University that had first turned its back on them. They let their hatred and malice fuel their own continued studies into the secrets of magic. Turning to dark, unpredictable methods, they gained more power and notoriety. They refused to go unnoticed, demanding to finally be seen by the University—even if seen only as a villain.

There was a distinct correlation between those poor, unfortunate individuals and the way they were treated in school by their peers and instructors, but no one at the University seemed to realize that. They continued to congratulate themselves on their low percentage of villainous alumni, convinced that their strict curriculum and methods had rooted most of the villains out before any real damage could be done. They didn’t realize that they were the ones responsible for such things in the first place. Most likely because no one had written a paper based on the systemic and glaring evidence. Even if someone had, no one at the University had bothered to read it just yet. Probably because it wasn’t included in the curriculum’s required reading texts. Thus, the vicious cycle has continued, unchecked, and the question remains to this day. What makes one a villain? My answer? The University of Magics and Mysteries of the Material and Immaterial World. But they don’t know that.

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