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Short Story S:2 P: 5 - "The Staff"

     The wood in my hand creaked under the strength of my grip but I know its sturdiness and it will never fail me under the strain I will put it through.
     When I had first felt the rush inside of me, the hair raising electrical charge that revealed itself to be Magic coursing through my veins, I dreamed of the day I would wield it as strongly as I do a sword.
     It took years to master--an uneasy road of many failures with few triumphs.
    I courted the scattered training grounds, seeking tutelage under as many practitioners who would grant me time and attention. Some taught me wisdom beyond my age, others kept me up to pace as I grew, and the few who failed me, betrayed my innocence--engraining in me both mental and physical scars that drive me still today towards righteousness.
     Over the years there has been much blood on my hands--those of monsters and demons that dwell in caves and nightmares--and stains left by rogue Wizards and Witches who soiled the gift granted upon them. I fought them all to earn my way upward, to seek the badge and title I wear so proudly now upon my skin and my amor.
     There is not a village or kingdom within all the landlocked plains that have not felt the sharp end of my sword or the fire that bursts from my hands into balls of flame. They may not all see me as a hero, they may never even grant me my title or remember my name, but when evil falls upon them and they call out for the Battle Mages, I will be there, with my Staff and my fellow kin, and we will bring darkness to its knees until the end of ages.

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