VIKANDER
The rumors spread rather quickly, carrying through the hushed, secretive hallways of the Scarab and even piercing the practically impregnable veil to his workshop. Vikander hadn’t thought anything of it at first, lost and drowning in parchment and ink. Why bother? A patch of curiously colored flowers? Pah. He had seen thousands of such specimens during his years in Novus and they had all been useless. Such a thing seemed frivolous and unimportant, and surely of no assistance to his work… But then the whispers grew in detail, and the secrets unraveled like yarn at his feet.
’They say the flowers sprouted in a single night,’ one visitor, deep into his cups, admitted over hushed whispers and boisterous laughter.
’Well, I heard that they were made of pure gemstones!’
Another, female this time, chimed in with her own account. ’I bet they’re worth a fortune. I also heard that they have magic in them.’
Desperation gripped him. Vikander hung off of every word, gripping the rails of an unstable parapet that would ultimately give way and send him tumbling into that familiar pit of darkness and despair. Magic. Everything changed. Perhaps this was the answer?
In a flurry of shadows and long hair of matted curls, the warlock tore from the Den and rushed towards his chambers. He slung a patchwork satchel over his shoulder like a man possessed, the ice of his eyes wild and rolling with madness. “Quick,” he breathed to himself, a mantra of frantic whispers, “Quickly, now. I have to get them. I have to.” Nothing else mattered. He forgot his cloak, his spell books, his inks and quills. He forgot to leave a note, should anyone in the Scarab come knocking. He forgot to put out the lit lantern on his workshop desk, so close to his precious work, so lost in the frantic desperation as he was.
He did not get far. A beckon, almost as soon as he left his workshop, a voice calling his name. Aghavni. He froze, halting in his tracks like a rabbit stared down a wolf, positively quivering with anxiety, a lost spectre full of brash decisions yet to be made. His eyes flashed her way, wide pools of icy blue, and his lips parted. No sound emerged, not at first, but eventually he croaked out his response.
’Magic.’ Damnable gods bless her, because she understood. Perhaps she saw something within his madness, a daring determination that had been vacant for as long as they had known one another. Aghavni agreed to accompany him, and like that, they were off, leaving the White Scarab behind.
Together, they arrived at the Steppe. Evening was approaching and the skies were beginning to turn dark, and soon Vikander knew that stars would start poking their heads out of the blank abyss of the night sky. He did not look to see if he was correct, though, for his gaze was locked on the twinkling forms swaying in the cold winter breeze. The blood pulsed in his ears and his lungs strained to draw air. It was true.
There, not two lengths away, was a field of gemstone-like flowers. Their petals, seemingly made of glass, glittered in the evening sunlight. They were beautiful. As though possessed he stepped forward, unable to hear anything save the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. The black of his coat was marred with dust and sweat, dark curls dancing and swaying about his face in time with the swaying flowers.
“It’s true. Aghavni, it’s true.” The wilted grass beneath the flowers meant nothing. Vikander knew magic, and he could feel it, ripe, powerful, raw, within the soil beneath his very hooves. Whether or not Aghavni tried to stop him, Vikander would pay her no mind. Instead, he ventured into the fields, wild eyes admiring every flower, every sharp, glass-like petal, and then reached down to greedily, desperately pluck a few from their bent stalks to shove into his bag and take home.
Please… Please, let this work. It was all he had left.
@Aghavni <3
***STAFF EDIT
@Vikander has rolled a 5! He has been awarded +1 EXP point for interacting with the flowers.
