The Air Was Stifling. Essay

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The air was stifling. Nearly unbearable. Unbreathable.

Shining Armor was sweating. His breathing was ragged and he sounded like he just ran a marathon. It wasn’t the strenuous travail of having to cast mana intensive spells; because somepony of his physique was something nopony would ever witness him complaining about. The spells cast themselves as if they were in control and alive—fully emanating without fail and striking the designated target on the practice-grounds. It was an act he was all too familiar with. Second nature. A ritual. He needn’t to give large volume of thought to what the next spell would be as it was practically predisposed in his conscious mind. He was only ever distinctly aware that he was spell casting with such a casualness that completely belied the essential concentration—acts that no pony around could easily accomplish.

And despite that, he was exhausted and perspiring. Perhaps the sunny weather was to blame, but Shining had grown near heat resistance ever since he had become Captain of the Royal Guard.

The mind was clouded, occupied, and isolate, as it merely focused on continuously spell casting. Enigmas of unknowable longings moulded themselves, and with that came images engulfing his mind. He stayed focused and kept channeling his magicka through and through, each subsequent spell becoming duller thwacks against the targets.

She was all he could think about. It was a strange phenomenon. It wasn’t that long ago since she had last seen

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