There are two kinds of magic in the world of men. The magic of song, that pulls energy from the warp and the weft of reality, and the magic of dance, that weaves the power to a purpose. One cannot exist without the other; power without purpose simply seeps back into what is already woven, and purpose without power is a shuttle with no thread. Thus the world maintains its balance, and the cloth of life winds on.

It’s not for nothing I tell you this, daughter of my daughter’s daughter. You are young, but wise– perhaps too wise, and you test boundaries you do not yet understand.

The magic of song is a gift reserved for the young. You are still new to the world, for all your years, and the warp has only the lightest of holds. Yours is the wild magic, the untamed worlds that have yet to be woven. But mine, mine is a life pulled taught in the weavings, and mine is the power to recreate those patterns.

It is not your place to dance, not yet, lest you unravel the world in your ignorance.