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Wizards don’t age, not like we do. Some live forever, if life is what you’d call it. Others fade, expire or explode. They’re powerful things, the forces they play with, and none of them really have that much control. Outward force must be repaid in kind, and they cannot, or will not comprehend the forces that they play with. It’s a dangerous game, magic.

There’s something in the forces that they play with that envelops. It becomes a part of them, it becomes them. As ancients, they are often difficult to distinguish from their element of choice.

Some, not all, look older, in a way dissimilar to that of a mortal aging. An elderly wizard is often the epitome of an elderly wizard, a cliche that is so accurate that it cannot possibly be a reality.

A master of fire is wont to lose his hair, yet skin oft remains as pure as youth. Hard of eye though, as they age it becomes a hunger, devouring, a warm lust that pierces those it catches. Unforgiving and destructive.

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