"Magic?" Drisk asked. "No, not magic. Magic is a gift, a beneficial ability of the supernatural. What I have is a curse, an abominable scar upon my being which has marked me for death. Magic is a force of light, spreading positive affects wherever it goes. What I have is a contamination of darkness, corrupting and disasterful. Magic marks someone as a powerful individual who should be respected. What I have marks me as an outcast, a monster who would be killed the instant I return to my own world. In the seemingly likely event that you didn't catch most of that: magic is good, what I have is bad."
Drisk stopped talking, and a few splits of his hair turned orange, the begginings of his ultimatum form. It did not mean that he was shifting into the form, only that his personality was starting to be in the same line as it.
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