eight
He had left him in the dark - the barren lightbulb of magic glowing dim, the little thing fading in the darkening of the night. The magician could grow attached to things, should time let him. He preferred not to let it be so. Small moments of manipulation, snippets of snark, times of torture: these were what he knew best. Lure the lad away and feel the might of magic flow through him - but any more and he would be lost. Eight left the iced child to be in his own euphoric comedown. Some things are better meant to realize alone.
Time can change things. Even more so, magic can change things (change you, yourself, your surroundings, your everything and anything). Eight cannot remember time anymore - it is a construct unknown - it is why he blinks himself into the cosmos to spend eons away. There is too much in knowing you will live forever, it is a heavy taste in knowing you will never meet soil; you will only make a mark on souls. Perhaps time was making him soft - but the magician did not want to be the one to tell the boy that the only thing before him would be loss, leftovers, and the unending life before him.
He appears quiet in the soundless snow that stretches across the sand - it aches with want, the sullen, and untouched land around them. His tentacles reach out, beckoning and calling - drawing on the skin of the little thing. Coime, come, come. He calls him to the dashed beach, the land of bones and rot - the decayed and dying. The boy would hear it - Eight knows this much, his magic cannot be pushed off so easily. But how would he get here?
He wait. And he offers no greeting when the boy shows- no kind regards - simply:
“What do you say now, boy? Are you still you?”
He had watched from afar - the maneuvering through this new marrow magic. He had forgotten the intricacies - the fight to survive, the struggle to strongarm each new tactic and trait. His magic was a part of him now, he could not fathom feeling the thrumming through him, the ability for every whim to be his. What was it like to be fumbling and foolish in the might of magic?
Time can change things. Even more so, magic can change things (change you, yourself, your surroundings, your everything and anything). Eight cannot remember time anymore - it is a construct unknown - it is why he blinks himself into the cosmos to spend eons away. There is too much in knowing you will live forever, it is a heavy taste in knowing you will never meet soil; you will only make a mark on souls. Perhaps time was making him soft - but the magician did not want to be the one to tell the boy that the only thing before him would be loss, leftovers, and the unending life before him.
He appears quiet in the soundless snow that stretches across the sand - it aches with want, the sullen, and untouched land around them. His tentacles reach out, beckoning and calling - drawing on the skin of the little thing. Coime, come, come. He calls him to the dashed beach, the land of bones and rot - the decayed and dying. The boy would hear it - Eight knows this much, his magic cannot be pushed off so easily. But how would he get here?
He wait. And he offers no greeting when the boy shows- no kind regards - simply:
“What do you say now, boy? Are you still you?”
He had watched from afar - the maneuvering through this new marrow magic. He had forgotten the intricacies - the fight to survive, the struggle to strongarm each new tactic and trait. His magic was a part of him now, he could not fathom feeling the thrumming through him, the ability for every whim to be his. What was it like to be fumbling and foolish in the might of magic?
mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk
@[crowns]