Perhaps I was better off dead, after all… Now, the struggle starts again.

After what seemed like an age, the pains subsided to a more bearable level, and his mind began to clear. The mage opened his eyes and winced at the blinding light that lanced into them. Grimm forced his watering eyes to remain open, although his vision was blurred and confusing.

"Come here, Redeemer," he muttered, his tongue feeling like wood, summoning his Mage Staff from wherever it might be lying.

A mage's personal staff was far more than an inanimate lump of wood: no physical force could break it; it could be summoned from anywhere in the world with a thought or a word; it caused pain and injury to any who touched it without its master's permission. No Magemaster could teach how to fashion a complete Mage Staff, but success or failure was an indicator of how well he had taught his pupil. Every Adept had to attempt to produce a staff from a lifeless lump of wood without aid, and then he had to smash it three times against his Guild House's magically sharp and impervious Breaking Stone. The least crack or splinter condemned the Adept to further months or years of toil before he could try again.

Only when the supplicant's staff rebounded from the Stone unharmed was the Adept accepted as a true Guild Mage and granted the coveted blue-gold ring of acceptance into the ranks of the Brethren.

Grimm felt the comforting, familiar slap of his beloved Redeemer as it appeared in the palm of his outstretched right hand, and he felt a shock of relief.

At least I'm not helpless, he thought: a Mage Staff was a potent weapon, even in the hands of a disorientated mage. He tried to take firm hold on the staff, but his nerveless fingers seemed to betray him.

"Watch over me, Redeemer." The staff floated clear of his hand.

At last, his vision began to clear, and he began to make out details.