[Tristeza]

In a world where magic is might, society stood divided by blood. The blessed ones, to whom manipulating the energies of the world around them was second nature. The scholars, who had talent yet needed time and effort to reach a third of the power the laziest of the blessed boasted. Even the normal folk could perform some minor spells. On the bottom of the scale, those with no magic at all, the cursed, even rarer than the blessed and, strangely, all male. 

Looked at as blights in an otherwise 'perfect' society, the cursed, even rarer than the blessed, were collected in boarding houses that were slave markets in all but their name, waiting for wealthy patrons to buy them and give them a purpose in life. The blessed in particular tended to grab as many cursed as they could and show them off as their private collection.

A tall figure, cloaked in silver, walked calmly around the rune limited enclosures of the cursed, hand stretched out with a small white flame on his palm. Each time he approached a cursed one, the fire changed colors and enlarged slightly. Each time, a low groan would follow suit as he turned to the next one, muttering always the same. 'Not enough...'

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