10-03-2020, 06:54 PM
eight
Eight does not remember the day he became a magician. He does not remember the way his bones felt as though they would splinter into a thousand pieces. He does not remember how the pain crept into his lungs like it was attempting to drown him. He does not remember his lack of lucidity; how he nearly wept for his mother, though he had not seen her since birth. Perhaps it is for the best, forgetting the way his gift felt like a curse. He has yet had to feel that driving pain since the day it settled into his blood - maybe feeling it all in one is better, so that you may never have to feel again.
There are pins at the edges of his aura - a tickle that mutated towards the back of his throat, a tangible feeling in the call of his blood. It was something so unfamiliar, but he knew so well - the pull of magic. No one had dared tease the test of magic upon him (which was not quite a surprise, considering how aged he was, and how deeply settled his magic was into his veins) . Now this… this was quite interesting - why not play along?
---
There is a bite of cold on his skin, despite the smooth summer heat that he was once bathed in. It is a land he has never stepped foot in, save for destruction. It is Taiga - a reminder of the long lost Tundra - a fogged land of ice and men. And then, there is the child; his ocean washed gift. His stolen delight, snagged and secured from beneath Sabbath. Crowns comes closer, whether for warmth or to be sure that the magician is there, he does not know. But they are here - together - and not by the magician’s doing.
He reaches out, as the little thing blathers on in his typical cheery state. He feels magic in the bones of the boy (red hot with teeth and ire, a dark shape of serpent - but much more) magic, magic, magic. And the magician cannot help but laugh inwardly ; for he could have asked for nothing better than what was right now. Sabbath’s little son (his, now - his son) has magic inside him. The magician feels the heat simmering off water wings (a steam growing into the darkening night), and the boy’s skin feels hot from even a foot away. There is magic fighting inside him - and there could be no better thing.
“Crowns. You have returned to me.” Eight blows upon his skin, an icy cool haven to the blistering that boils from below. His head turns coyly sideways, eying the blue boy with interest (for oh, how interesting things have become). And then he mentions the feather.
“No, boy.” The sigh is rifted with unknown patience. “You did.” And then - a brilliant flash of an idea. “My feather gave you something incredible. Something that makes you a part of me.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. This would be an interesting ride.
There are pins at the edges of his aura - a tickle that mutated towards the back of his throat, a tangible feeling in the call of his blood. It was something so unfamiliar, but he knew so well - the pull of magic. No one had dared tease the test of magic upon him (which was not quite a surprise, considering how aged he was, and how deeply settled his magic was into his veins) . Now this… this was quite interesting - why not play along?
---
There is a bite of cold on his skin, despite the smooth summer heat that he was once bathed in. It is a land he has never stepped foot in, save for destruction. It is Taiga - a reminder of the long lost Tundra - a fogged land of ice and men. And then, there is the child; his ocean washed gift. His stolen delight, snagged and secured from beneath Sabbath. Crowns comes closer, whether for warmth or to be sure that the magician is there, he does not know. But they are here - together - and not by the magician’s doing.
He reaches out, as the little thing blathers on in his typical cheery state. He feels magic in the bones of the boy (red hot with teeth and ire, a dark shape of serpent - but much more) magic, magic, magic. And the magician cannot help but laugh inwardly ; for he could have asked for nothing better than what was right now. Sabbath’s little son (his, now - his son) has magic inside him. The magician feels the heat simmering off water wings (a steam growing into the darkening night), and the boy’s skin feels hot from even a foot away. There is magic fighting inside him - and there could be no better thing.
“Crowns. You have returned to me.” Eight blows upon his skin, an icy cool haven to the blistering that boils from below. His head turns coyly sideways, eying the blue boy with interest (for oh, how interesting things have become). And then he mentions the feather.
“No, boy.” The sigh is rifted with unknown patience. “You did.” And then - a brilliant flash of an idea. “My feather gave you something incredible. Something that makes you a part of me.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. This would be an interesting ride.
mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk
@[crowns] heeeeeere we go! dream team.. UNITE!