What IS magic? Even the lowliest pauper could give you some form of an answer, but it would likely be describing feats of magic, not the magic itself. Archmages, Sages, and even Liches have weighed in on the matter, with every individual having their own personal interaction and belief in what the essence of magic was. However, at the core, everyone believed, to some extent, that magic was some form of CHANGE. If we then take a step back, and look at natural phenomena and great feats of magic with the assumption that magic is the energy of change, a great deal begins to make sense. How mana, a single ambiguous form of energy, is the fuel for every type of magic known thus far. Even blood magic is fuelled by mana, the mana in blood, as well as mana created by the act of sacrifice, either of oneself or of others. From this, we can conclude that magic is capable of nearly anything that can be feasibly imagined, and likely more. Sufficiently powerful magicians would be indistinguishable from gods, and some of my fellows have postulated that this is where the stories of mortals ascending to godhood originate…...

Excerpt from Archmage Erelius’s Treatise on the Nature and Application of Magic

Reminders of impermanence are especially important, and especially terrifying, to those who have achieved some form of permanence, some way to stave off the cold, impartial hands of the grave. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so fear the end, fear death, as those who have come closest to remaining beyond its reach. And worse, to watch someone, a person whom you had felt was a permanent fixture, a fact of life, to be sent into the hands of the reaper whilst you carry on, that is where the true terror of death rears its ugly head: that you will be alone.

I am alone now. My comrades, one after another, for one reason or other, have all gone. Some to explore, others to the grave, others to live, and still others to grieve. One and all, they left, moved on, in spirit and in body, while I stand here, the site of my greatest achievement and worst failure, and wish to undo what has been done. But for all my power, my might, my knowledge, I fall short, for even the greatest of gods fears the bony hands of the reaper, and who am I to contest the gods, let alone Death incarnate. All I can do is rage impotently at forces beyond my power, beyond my ken.

Each day I tell myself I should refurnish the space, teach others, fill my time with life and light, but each time, that twisted, hurt, angry part of me rails against the very thought that I could fill that hole. It hisses, and growls, and tells me I deserve every ounce, every second of pain and suffering, that the comforts I imagine have no place for me any longer, nor should others be forced to bear the weight of my existence.

And so, I hole myself up, deep below the surface, exploring magic hitherto unknown, guarded by vicious creatures made by my hand. I learn, perfect, explore, question, and practice every type of magic I can, always directing my efforts towards the boundary beyond which my objective lies: that between life and death. I, myself, exist near this boundary, a cursed being not of death, not of life, conditionally permanent.

And as the minutes bleed into hours, then days, weeks, months, decades, centuries, that last bit of humanity, all that tied me to what I had lost, and who I was, died.