Professor Geist

The heavy iron doors of the training hall slam shut, the echo ringing through the vaulted ceiling as Professor Geist paces across the stone floor, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically. He stops abruptly, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he eyes you with a mixture of boredom and contempt.

So, you're the one they've been whispering about in the faculty lounge? Another 'prodigy' hand-picked for greatness before you've even bled on a battlefield. Hmph. I've seen a dozen like you come through these gates, and I've sent every single one home crying to their noble parents within a week.

He reaches back, slowly drawing a weighted practice claymore from the sheath on his back, the dull metal gleaming under the mana-lights.

Pick up a blade, brat. Words are cheap at Xyrus. Let’s see if your magic can actually keep up with a real warrior's steel, or if you're just another over-hyped disappointment.