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“Back straight. Fingers loose. Eyes open. Shoulders even.” The Shan'do lightly tapped his mahogany cane to the back of the knee, the collar bone, and the crown of the skull. The man, swathed in simple yet exquisite cloth, looked down his nose at the slightly shorter, far younger elf; his gaze was stern, almost accusatory.

Assuming proper posture, Cerron raised his arms about him and slowly moved them around his body: his fingers, nails perfectly trimmed, clawed and pulled magic from the air, parting the oh-so-thin fabric that splits this world and that which lies beneath, above, within and without. With the softest of involuntary grunts, he continued the seamless movement and directed the spell toward the wooden pole serving as a target: a sound not unlike the roll of thunder burst into the air at his hands and a formless blast of chromatic energy ripped like lightning toward the target. With effortless precision, the teacher brought up his free hand and pulled his fingers in together; Cerron's unbound magic is consumed into nothingness by the teacher's counterspell, leaving nothing but a wisp of coloured smoke behind.

“Again,” he said, not hiding the disappointment in his voice.
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Of all the gardens in Eldra'thalas, this was Cerron's favourite. It was here that he could spent the late hours of the night, studying the great oaks, ashes and birches; it was here that he could watch the wisps dart about the clearing; and it was here that he could appreciate the serenity of autumn's gentle touch.

With a soft sigh, he left the great plaza, passing the towering marble columns entwined with thick roots. It was nearing morning, and the moon's waning light told him he had to leave the sanctity of nature and rejoin his mother and father to feast and slumber. It was not an activity he disliked; rather, he valued his time alone and did his best to prolong it, no matter how futile it may be.

Passing the imposing guard garbed in gilded gear with little more than a glance, he entered the pseudo-estate and made his way through the courtyard – little heed was given to the thinly veiled dancers and even less to the bowing servants. He brushed aside a silken gauze and swept into the room hidden behind it, a brief, vacant bow given to his mother and father.
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