The risk of created a catastrophe too great, you decide to forgo the futuristic weapon. Your left hand drifts to the sword at your hip and you find an odd comfort once you grasp the cold hilt.
The ivory brows of the white wizard almost touch as he studies you, the unblinking gaze roving from head to toe. "You do not belong here, boy." The sinuous staff touches your pauldron and traces a slow line to the automatic weapon concealed beneath chainmail and the crimson cloak on your back. The clink of wood on metal seems to intrigue the wizard further, and he attempts to pull back the garments concealing your weapon.
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