Stefan and Adero
Indifferent as his body felt, he was unequivocally certain that he had been bestowed upon power -- magical power -- and now he was to assay it, to witness it for himself.
Unfolding his hood, his hand extended into his jacket’s right pocket as he withdrew his weapon. The gun – the Gymnopedie -- crafted of his own signature, was an intricate piece, as it glimmered in the night as traces of the vague, flickering lights of the alley adorned the black, metal surface with crescent slits of a shining silver. The edge of the weapon’s grip was inlaid with his family crest, the Courteau ruby, as the sanguine red surface of the jewel glistened nebulously under the little light surrounding him.
His gloved fingers swathed themselves around it for the umpteenth time. It was in that only when the gun fired that he was alive. It was the gun that elucidated his purpose. Alas, only bullets lade within the magazine, waiting to be fired.
Yet was it possible to perform the magic through his weapon?
Lost in thought, he withdrew himself into his cage of thoughts, entering a state of unperturbed, undistracted tranquillity as he decided to adhere to Ryuu's suggestion.
To use your power, you must first recognize that you had it.
A mage, he fixated his mind on the very thought, putting all else aside. A being with power. A power that he desired and that would transcend him to one capable of reaching his goals. To avenge his sullied family name.
And so he indoctrinated the thoughts within him, reassuring himself at the precise beat of which a hammer’s strike was to a nail. He was powerful. He was strong.
Sigh.
He inhaled, merely once. To the narrow sky above the alleyway he took aim, recalling his father’s teachings as he steadied himself for the attempt, distancing himself slightly from Adero and the other mysterious figures.
Firm steps, his father’s voice echoed in his mind. Firm hands. Eyes a keenness shaming the sharpest blades. To vacillate, even slightly, would be to miss the shot.
Concentrate.
It wasn’t before long before the power resounded within him, a glow slowly emanating within the weapon’s steel casing, centred around the magazine, as it propagated from within, growing ever stronger, the light increasingly vibrant.
It was within seconds that the power in the gun overwhelmed him as his grip staggered, even with both hands firm on its surface, as his hands quivered in rebellion against the force of his weapon as the magic within emerged. Concentrated to a shot, the magic escaped from the muzzle as the recoil caused Stefan to jerk backward and lose his footing, as he barely managed to firm up his legs upon the ground.
The shot, a mix of purple and black elemental light, soared as if a firework in a night sky, the blistering, unseeable flash the impossible speed of a lightning bolt. There was no burst, however; no explosion, no feedback, no response within seconds after Stefan had committed to his first magical shot.
Stefan froze as his hand wielding the gun slumped downward, as if it had been stripped away of all of its remaining strength. He lingered within a mix of satisfaction and amazement as his hands, for a rare, perhaps disgraceful moment of time, wavered and shivered as it beheld his weapon.
How far did the shot fly?