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The Diomar Perspective


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Magic is alive, hidden within the folds of reality. Even in these modern times, it is lit across the world, in Iceland, Bolivia, Ukraine, China, Scotland, Barbados--working in the hands of even those we take for granted: the barista, the lawyer, the bus driver. And this is how it works.   In the three tiers of the dioman, the magic folk, the magi are the very smallest. First are the wizards, those who wield great might through staffs and wands, with a word and a wave.   Then there are the sorcerers, a smaller group, neither less important, nor more special. These have a more internal magic, based on a thought and a touch.   Two ways of harnessing the magic within our modern times. Two ways to reach the light. But the third way, and by far the rarest, is the way of the magi. A mage is born at random, only a few ever thousand years—there is no rhyme to their parentage, no rhythm to their births. It is only known that they are different from the rest of the dioman, a mark of power that sets them apart from the world, both in ability and reaching to very crannies of their lives. Theirs is the secret of the rune, and the spark that is within them lights the flame within the lines and scratches of those patterns we study.   Surely, you might think, to have such power would be a dream—and perhaps it would be. To be known, to be respected? To be feared? But think, too, of such heaviness. If you look through history, the magi are a quiet lot, hidden in palaces of kings who would harness them, or leaving the family who fear what they do not understand, or living away from the dual mob and sweetness of society.