Imagine a man. He is standing in a six foot by six foot cell. He knows there are dozens of other identical cells at either side of him, each with an inhabitant. At night he hears them tapping against the walls with their metal bowls. It is some sort of language but he hasn't been able to figure it out. He is a stranger to this land. He barely speaks the language.
He has in his pockets a few items, trinkets and such, a few matchsticks, a tissue. He wonders what he might do with them. Something, he thinks, remembering, seeing in his mind's eye a book his master made him memorize, a book of spells.
Of course, that was exactly how he'd ended up where he was in the first place; by casting spells. It didn't matter that they were harmless. And it didn't matter that he didn't know. But since they'd already sentenced him to death it didn't matter if he had another go, did it? After all, there couldn't be anything worse than death, right?
So that's the beginning of my tale of the sorcerer - let's hear yours.