Moone was quiet for a while. A very long while. One might even call it a prolonged, awkward silence without being entirely incorrect. The gears in his mind slowly turned within his mind, as he meandered aimlessly down memory lane. He remembered getting his first book on magic, a worn old tome that any mage worth his salt wouldn't touch on his worst day. It represented most of his mother's saving, and the best birthday party he could remember from his youth. It was poor kindling for a spark of magic, but then a spark of magic was all he ever had. He remembered the day his teacher gave up on him. A sour day tainted by hate, spite, and so much sadness. It was this first tranquil fury, this slight, that remained core to his passion, his work, his very being. It was the clockspring that drove him forward, that turned the gears of his mind in the relentless pursuit of alchemical superiority. That drove him to prove that with all but a spark, he could light up the whole world. That with only a spark, all that stood in his path would burn in the light of innovation. He remembered that day as the day he realized that a spark of magic was all he ever needed. And he grinned, wide and toothy in defiance of his roots. "Not for all the magic in the world, Squamata. Were I a mage, I'd be a footnote. A forgotten blot of ink in the pages of history. I am as I was meant to be. And as I am, it is I who will write the book."