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Mages see magic as something as natural as breathing. They consider it intrinsic to their soul: something that sets them apart from others and makes them who they are. Strong. Proud. Unbreakable.

What will they do when it's torn from them? Rent from their cores before their own eyes? Will they beg for their life? For mercy? Will they flee? Or will they stand and fight with their last dregs of strength?

It matters not.

It makes no difference. They will not be the first, nor will they be the last. There is nowhere they can go where I cannot follow, and though they may look over their shoulders, sleep with one eye open, and cast their wards, there is no way to escape their reaper.

For those that thoughtlessly cast their spells merely dig deeper into their own graves.

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