Men call it a gift, a talent.  I'll tell you what it is. It's a thrice-named curse, Magic is. A hole, a rip in a man's soul. And out pours the stuff of creation. 

Man wasn't made for it, not that. He was never meant to take the smoke and the fire that the gods wove to make this world and all its sisters. Never meant to make the world's lifeblood his own.

But you can feel it. Can't you? That rippling itch, that... pull, that siren song demanding you reach deep down into yourself and draw the magic out, shape it, weave great spells. I know you do, I can see it in your eyes. And I can see the fear. That's good, fear. Healthy. Fear keeps a man alive.

Well get you up, my friend, up into the mountains yonder. Get you up to where the ice cleaves the peaks. If you're lucky... She'll find you. If you're luckier, she'll give you her knife. If not... Well.

Will we meet again? I'd say we will. As friends, perhaps, but we'll meet. Now get you up, time's wasting.

--Kalrathi Huntsman Orick Tar, to a potential recruit.