I recall the crackling under my skin. The sparks which would so often snap out of my fingers for uncontrollable, unknown reasons. Magic was the norm, and yet, no one seemed to replicate this feeling of mine. But like any student with magic, I was enrolled in the academy. The students were fools. Ridiculous mongrels fighting amongst themselves claiming their tricks of light to be the most powerful of magic. I couldn't stop hearing the crackle. The... crackle...

One day, a sloppy, sleazy dirtbag of a man approached me, thinking himself worthy of my standing, my family, my nobility. He thought his touch welcome... the crackle snapped at him... Ha, ha, ha ha... With finger flicks, my hand began to weave what was a lightning spell of destruction to fall upon the idiot. The teachers paled at first, then scrambled, only to bring back more powerful wizards to contain the crackle.

But crackles ripple along conductible surfaces, and bodies? Oh - so - conductible.

There is so much one can do against an academy, and soon, the crackle was contained. Contained but angry, ready to make them all understand that...

Their simply tricks of light? It shan't be theirs, and will be ours. For each of their petty use of magic will be naught when faced with our grandeur, when each element's witch or wizard rises against the weak.