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When Worlds Collide

It Begins

The child was scrawny and lonely and miserable, and as far as he knew, he'd been so for all of his ten years of life.

The Sun was setting and darkness was falling fast but he was wandering aimlessly along the mostly deserted streets. His Aunt had thrown him out in a fit and he knew from bitter experience that going back too soon was a bad idea. It was much better to keep walking and watch the lights coming from behind the curtains, longingly imagining the families hidden there.

Suddenly, an incredibly weird feeling surged through him.

It was as if an invisible wall of water had splashed silently over him but he wasn't wet, just- galvanized, like being suddenly drenched with cold water would leave you: some strange form of energy was flowing all around him and through him, making his body vibrate, buzz, sting with the sensation. It was almost uncomfortable, like a milder version of the overall feeling of shock he'd had once after accidentally sticking his finger in a socket. Curious, he frowned and concentrated, trying to figure it out, and with a gasp he realized he could almost but not quite see a kaleidoscope of rushing dancing lights.

It felt… magical.

The child bit his bottom lip. There was no such thing as Magic. He knew that. He'd been told that countless times. But if… if…

There was no harm in trying, was there?... If, by chance, something like Magic could exist…

The child glanced quickly around, checking his surroundings warily. He was alone, good. He closed his eyes and wished… wished with all his strength, with all his desperation, that Magic would exist and take him away, give him a better life, somewhere he was useful and wanted, someone to care for him…

The surge of power was reshaped…


The shredded soul was barely alive, mere shadow and vapour, clinging to existence with desperate stubbornness, bitter that it could not rise above this half-life, too terrified to let go.

Suddenly, an incredibly potent feeling surged through him.

It was amazing, springing up through his consciousness like a snake, with such force that its awareness was heightened to an insurmountable level: all of a sudden sounds were louder, colours were brighter and for the first time in years its thoughts and its perceptions were as clear as they used to be when he was still whole.

Even if currently weak, the split soul was still an incredible magic user and recognized the power surge instantly as a magical disturbance of some sort. Even in its state, he craved the power the storm offered with stark lucidity.

Avidly, he sought out the source, floating through the dizzying viscous power with greedy frenzy, hope rising violent in him that perhaps, at last, he'd found something better than rats to exploit. He closed his eyes and willed… willed with all his might, with all the strength of his belief, his knowledge that Magic is essentially willpower, willed himself back to what he once was, to the height of his supremacy…

The surge of power was reshaped…


The old man gazed upon the children gathered in the majestic Hall for their evening meal, smiling in true joy at the sounds of chatting and laughter that warmed his heart.

Suddenly, an incredibly unsettling feeling surged through him.

It was as if a thin shaped film of… existence… possibilities… realities… was unobtrusively but unmistakably superimposed on everything for an instant or two, then ripped away. As if the world had tilted on its axis a bit, teetered for an excruciatingly long moment on the brink of toppling into change, then settled again…

He frowned, contemplating the odd occurrence. He was too well-learned to mistake it for anything but a wave of magical disturbance, the kind that unleashes wildly enough power to alter the very fabric of reality. He also knew how easily it would be to exploit it, for Wild Magic is an ever-moving energy, and like a mass of water, it needs to flow, so all one has to do is provide a course and it will pour through it, docile to the wielder's will… but he didn't dare use it… didn't trust himself with such power… he'd proven, as a very young man, that power was his weakness and his temptation… he couldn't afford such a responsibility…

All he could do was hope, with the tired, disillusioned hope of an old man who'd lived through two wars and was slowly preparing for a third, that its effects would not prove detrimental to the children in his care, that the residents of the castle would benefit from it rather than be harmed…

The surge of power was reshaped…