The Long Retreat No. 42

“Life as a magiker is often short and violent either way.” Falthejn cocked his head. “I suppose you’re familiar with life being difficult, though.”

Sif nodded, growing quiet. A minute passed before she spoke again. “What if I joined?”

“A guild?” Falthejn said. He hadn’t expected the seed he’d planted to sprout so soon.

“Yes. I don’t have much to look forward to, do I? Life as a street thief is short and violent, too.” There was a hitch in her voice as she said the word ‘thief’, but she soldiered on. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“I suspect that the doors of many of the guilds would be open to you,” Falthejn said. “This is not a choice you should make lightly, though. If you dedicate your life to magic, you dedicate it to war. I would think carefully, if I were you, on whether I would want that.”

She tilted her head. “Why did you join?”

“A fair question,” said Falthejn, “but one for another time.” He motioned to his preparations. “I should get to work.”

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