He has grown used to how the carpet of the Scarab swallows his footsteps -- he is soundless as he treads each careful step towards where Aghavni had pointed him, those few days ago, when they had discussed his employment and his sponsorship through the Scarab -- go to Vikander, she had suggested even as she had pointed out the way to his new living quarters, and finally he had settled in enough that he felt he could seek out the magician.

The door itself is easy enough to find, just down the hall from his own -- and he hesitates before it, his tail twitching uncertainly between his ankles, before reaching out and gently tapping upon the door with his horn, tap tap tap, quiet as a mouse and unwilling to disturb the man inside if he were doing serious research. Even when he strains his ears, he catches no sounds of life inside except for the occasional rustling of a page being turned -- he waits a few minutes and then tap tap taps at the door again, delicately, afraid to be a bother, and his tail twines around his ankle as the seconds tick by.

When there is still no answer, he decides that he will wait here until the man inside emerges -- he settles himself in the hallway with a deck of cards that he pulls from his satchel, dealing himself a hand of solitaire, and every so often his tail twitches into a soft pap pap against @Vikander's door as he concentrates.

Vikander was not one for interruptions, but luckily for the poor sap at his door he was completely oblivious to most of them. At least for awhile.

It was only Aghavni, August, or Senna himself that could pry the mad warlock away from his work. Recently the list had increased by one in the form of the Scarab’s lucrative Red Rose, but Vikander had yet to officially add her name to the list. Perhaps because, once again, he simply couldn’t remember it. No matter.

For hours the warlock stood hunched over his worktables, muttering to himself beneath his breath as his mind ran at rampant speeds. To one side his spellbook was laying open, its yellowed pages marred with barely illegible scratchings bare to the world, and occasionally he would flip to a few pages, skim the words, and proceed to tinker with the vials that were stacked tediously upon his desk. A pile of mix-matched components sat unceremoniously next to the vials, and the warlock squinted hard. He exhaled sharply, causing the pages of his spellbook to sway and a forelock of oily black curls to be blown upwards.

“Bone marrow… Damnit. I need bone marrow.”

The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, wafting through his room like a fog. The floral scent of bayberry was as familiar to him as the magic he had used to craft the very stick itself. Charcoal base, dried and crushed bayberry leaves, add a touch of magic for protection and warding, and personal gain. One day, it would work. One day.

’Tap, tap, tap.’

Vikander ignored the meek knock upon his door, not even hearing it. He was lost in the abyss of his mind, the infinite chasms of madness swallowing him whole as he frantically grabbed a pen and wrote down what type of bone marrow he needed. Age. Sex. Species. Genetic color. There was so much to do.

’Tap.’

Excitement bristled in his chest and his heart began to race. The stallion’s dark lips parted but no words escaped, a look of madness shining bright within his icy blue stare. Close. He was close.

’Tap.’

The glass flowers from the Bellum Steppe, the queer little field of magic that had seemed to bloom overnight, remained upon his table top. One blue, one red, one yellow. The faint traces of magic he felt within their gemstone petals danced through the air, causing him to shiver. They had not wilted, their shine just as beautiful, as dangerous as they were the day that he and Aghavni had gone to the Steppe to retrieve them, and he -

’Tap.’

Vikander paused. Everything halted; his work, his progress, his magic, his breath. ’Tap.’ The concentration derailed with momentous force and everything was lost. Slowly, his muscles aching from standing stationary for so long - how long had it been? -, the Friesian turned his head to stare, unimpressed, at the door to his chamber. It was locked, as it should be, but…

’Tap.’ An eye twitched. ’Tap.’ That was not Aghavni. Nor was it August, Senna, or… Or… Whatever her name was. Martha?

Like the very spirits he could see, Vikander turned and shuffled away from his worktables, the flicker of candle light casting his shadow against the far wall. His eyes narrowed, locked upon the door and the timid, pathetic, annoying tapping. Grasping the door with his magic, he unlocked it and wrenched it open with wild and rolling frozen eyes, not even bothering to see who it was before vocalizing his displeasure.

”What do you want?” The inquiry was spat out on a low fierce growl, the stallion’s black ears pinned back to be lost amidst a mane of wild black curls. He seethed, his mouth parted and teeth bared, but he did not recognize who he saw. That didn’t exactly make this any better, his heart racing within his chest.

"Speaking."

He is, perhaps, far more patient that any others might give his credit for, considering his age -- the boy is perfectly content to sprawl out in the hallway with his legs tucked beneath the fluff that covers his chest, carefully considering the cards that he has laid out in front of him. He’d switched to blackjack a few hands ago in order to practice his dealing, doing his best to imitate the quick snaps that he’s seen at the dealer tables.

(Frankly, he’s terrible -- too sloppy and fumbling the cards with each deal.)

When the door yanks open, he leaps to his feet, the telekinesis quickly grabbing at the cards and stuffing them haphazardly into his bag, his amber eyes wide as he stares towards the warlock that has just appeared in the doorway.

(Somewhere, a dealer weeps for his poor, dog-eared cards.)

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ag---Aghavni sent me,” He stumbles over her name, at first -- he’s still not quite used to how the syllables feel in his mouth, used to names like Winifred or Desdemona, the names of witchy girls who hated his guts for what he had done to them. His tail twitches from side to side at the tip like an agitated cat, one-two-three, before it winds around his back left ankle as though to reassure himself, his ears pressed back and buried in the wild tangle of his hair.

“I’m supposed to be… getting my Scarab? And helping you with your research, although she wouldn’t tell me what kind of research it was.” He babbles the words out quickly, the syllables tripping over each other in his haste, and if his flanks weren’t already pressed against the walls of the Scarab he’s sure he would have taken a step back.

The nervous cretin cowered and trembled but Vikander did not look away. His eyes were sharp knives of ice, piercing and cutting and mutilating with the strength of their displeasure. The stranger scrambled to collect his cards, creasing a number of them in the frantic process before scrambling to his feet. His size far exceeded Vikander’s own humble stature, but he certainly didn’t act that way, seeming to shrink and withdrawal in himself to appear smaller. Vikander scoffed.

Oh, no. This pitiful lad was not a member of the Scarab, and it was simply due to the name drop of Aghavni that stopped the warlock for shouting out for some muscle to toss him out. The Friesian’s eyes narrowed and his chin lifted, staring hard down his muzzle at the nervous newcomer.

The aggressive display was completely uncharacteristic of the otherwise silent and sullen warlock. He was not one for shouting, stomping around, or acts of aggression like baring his teeth like a heathen. He much preferred being left alone to his own devices, to skulk from shadow to shadow to avoid the prying eyes of the Scarab’s rather handsy patrons. Yet this man, this crimson and gold clad man with a rather uncharacteristic appearance, had interrupted his work and he had been so damn close!

He and fury did not go hand in hand, but at that moment they were synonymous.

An ebony ear flicked forward once the crimson-hued stranger spoke. The man was here to get his scarab? “You must be joking.” The statement was said without much thought, the tight-lipped seal on the words that left his mouth surprisingly lax. Yet if he had made it this far into the heart of the Scarab, he couldn’t possibly be joking. The thought was positively infuriating.

Well. Compared to the following statement that left the brightly colored fellow’s mouth, asking to get his scarab was nothing. Aghavni had told him to help in his research? That was a lie, it had to be. The woman knew that Vikander rarely accepted help when it came to his research, and if anyone would be lucky to assist him, it wouldn’t be a good for nothing stranger.

The warlock was very aware that his ire and irritation was a very palpable thing. Tangible, almost, and surely felt by the most empathetic fools around. Gritting his teeth, the ebony skinned male heaved a breath through his nose, icy blue eyes still locked on the crimson and gold fellow. “I’ll give you your scarab. That’s it.” The statement said, the Friesian turned with a trail of black, tousled curls and slipped back into his room, leaving the door open behind him for the newcomer to enter.

With something as tedious and precious as the souls of his wife and daughter, Vikander didn’t even know if he would allow Senna to help him. This man was a fool if he thought the warlock was that stupid.

“Shut the door behind you.” With the growl his only order, Vikander returned to his desk. He pushed aside what he had been working on for the time being and pulled open a drawer, beginning to sift through the contents carefully. Stacks of parchment, rolled scrolls, a few books… Muttering to himself, the warlock shut the drawer with a slam. He rounded once more upon the crimson and gold fellow, eyes narrowed. “Where do you want it?”

"Speaking."