The color of magic

She had thought a member of the undead might be more dour than this.

Fletcher laughed. “You don’t keep anything back, do you?”

Nemissa paused for a moment. “What do you mean?” Some understanding dawned on her. “I am quite tactful.”

“One can be forward without being blunt.” Fletcher showed her son his magic again, taking up drops of paint in a rainbow between his fingers, mixing the colors together and pulling them apart. She was as fascinated by this as the child was. However, Nemissa could still keep up conversation, while her son was content to keep silent and watch the show.

“Am I overstepping a boundary?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not at all. I simply wasn’t expecting a question like that. I’ve found that many are. They start out that way and if they haven’t, they grow into it. I’ll admit at first I was in the former camp. But dourness truly is a choice in this manner. I much prefer a positive outlook.”

“Then we have a shared perspective. Even when things go badly, continuing to look at further ill can’t make it better.”

“Sometimes nothing can make something better.” Fletcher smiled up at her. “Yet trying to, regardless, can create something else good where there might not have been any.”

With conversations like this, Nemissa couldn’t determine for the life of her, if the rest of the humanoid undead were in anyway similar to Fletcher, why people might fear the undead.

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