The little mage comes to the Manapool, perhaps drawn in by the fact that it's made of mana. And he's a mage. And mages have a deep love of mana. Or maybe it was the beautiful deadly maiden that had just slit a mans throat. There was that too. And then there was the fact that he literally had no place else to be. He was a black mage, an outcast--a vile, morally bankrupt little man with blue robes and a pointy hat. And an odd smell. Very odd. In fact, as he removed his dark blue robes and pointed little hat, the smell was so bad nearby plants began to shrivel and die. It was the alchemy indrediants, or so he told himself. 

Slipping into the manapool, Black Mage as he called himself, felt a sense of indescribable ecstasy. Moaning and moaning as the manapool washed over him, he could feel attachment to nature itself, to the arcane, TO THE POWER OF MAGIC. Looking at the odd people in the pool with him, there was murder in his eyes. Murder in the most extreme and arcanely impressive ways possible. 

Whipping out a full-length 9-inch wand, he grinned wildly, manically, eyes narrowed to slits. [b]"I am BLACK MAGE. I am MASTER of the Arcane arts. There are none that knows this mana better than I, none who know the secrets of the earth better then I. I wield the thread of time, the very fabric of space, the very soul of the planet itself! I am master of the the magic arts, sorcerer incarnate, even the GODS fear my power, for my name is BLACK MAGE and the power I have been gifted is too much to bear."[/b] With that, Black Mage pointed his 9 inch wand at the maiden, shooting off a a strange white colored stream of Mana. Would it hit? Only time would tell.