Like all elves, magic was inherently part of his life whether he used it or not. It seeped into his bones from before his birth, passed down like a silent, unspoken, birthright from a servant mother who stitched clothes for nobles. The same magic had flowed in her as any magistrix who walked the streets of silvermoon. It was the cosmic thread that tied all elves together regardless of station or caste. Sometimes it was easier than others to forget their common ties. When you spent a lifetime relying very little on the arcane it was simple to begin to dismiss it's subtle effects on your life. An arrow sang the same without any enchantments or runes. He could hit his mark without magic's aid. He could not, however, discredit the enchantments that allowed him to trudge through rain soaked forests and wade through chest deep waters with the same bow for centuries. Untended by the magicked runes carved into its wood the wax he polished into the frame would do little to hold out the moisture that so quickly ruined weapons such as this. Rough hands were delicate with the rag he ran back and forth along the bow's frame. Black and fairly unadorned, it nevertheless gleamed with pride of care. The bowstring was removed, allowing the weapon to curve back upon itself unhindered, resulting in a strangely shaped piece of wood he could strap to his back. The string was likewise made to withstand water, to keep its tension even when strung for long periods of time. But this was tradition, and habit, and something to do with his hands when his mind was far away somewhere another lifetime ago. And besides, just because you have the luxury of magic shouldn't mean you forget the old ways too. If he had learned anything over the last few years it was that magic, despite what their people may think, was not a source constant as the sun.
