and lord don't let me break this
let me hold it lightly
let me hold it lightly
S
he presses an ear against the smooth grain of the door, listening for sounds of life.
A loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, still steaming, floats lazily at her shoulder. Spoils from August’s early morning excursion to the markets — Aghavni had snagged two from his basket when she’d passed, slipping off down the hall before he’d had the chance to protest.
A dull thump resounds from within the room, followed immediately by the clattering of vials on a shelf, like chattering teeth. Signs of life detected; though the girl still cannot decide if she should be relieved or not.
She wonders whether she should knock — not that it matters, when the warlock never seems to hear — before the bronze doorknob begins to turn of its own accord. Cursing, Aghavni peels herself off of the door and slips around the corner of the hall moments before a man as black as midnight comes bursting from the room.
“Vik,” she calls, voice hovering between suspicion and confusion even before the wizard spins around to gape at her in alarm. “Where are you going?”
He is not wearing his cloak nor his satchel, and his leatherbound book of spells — as permanent a fixture to Vikander as the piercing blue of his eyes — is nowhere in sight.
In all her years of knowing him, Aghavni has never seen the man like this. He chokes out one word between lungfuls of breath: magic.
Yet it is enough; the pieces come together. Vikander has discovered something, and he needs it, now. She is no stranger to the caustic fire of desperation. It burns and burns, leaving nothing in its wake; she will not let him tame it alone.
Nodding once, Aghavni shoves the loaf towards him with a stern “Eat this,” before vanishing into an adjacent room and returning moments later with two woolen cloaks in tow. She tosses one to him, slipping the other over her shoulders and fastening the tie with a deft twist.
"There is no time to waste, is there?"
When she sees the field of flowers, swaying like ocean waves pulled by an invisible moon, she halts.
No — these are not flowers. Flowers do not glimmer brighter than gemstones. Flowers do not sing sweeter than songbirds. Even to her untrained, bewildered eye, Aghavni knows that these — things — are creations of magic.
A tingle of apprehension runs icy fingers down her spine. She has never been so far from the Scarab. Her fan rests against the jutting bone of her hip, though it is little comfort against a force the girl knows little, if anything, of. She is no longer even in Denocte, and the realization unnerves her more than anything else.
They are at the Bellum Steppe. She repeats the name to herself until it softens in her mouth, becomes more her than anything other. Bellum Steppe. (Where more blood has been shed than rain.) Bellum Steppe. (Where the Crow has killed Solterra’s girl-queen.)
Is her body rotting there, amongst the unnatural blooms? Do they feed upon her flesh like maggots?
Swallowing, she turns towards Vikander, no longer sure, no longer intrigued — she wishes to tell him to exercise caution, to not wander off (her confidence wavers even thinking about the possibility of him doing so), and above all, to not —
“It’s true. Aghavni, it’s true.”
But reflected in the warlock's blue, blue eyes is not apprehension — it is fascination. And before she can stop him, Vikander reaches down and plucks a glass-petaled not-flower from the bed of the wilting earth.
She holds her breath, waiting for retribution.
@Vikander @Random Events | notes: <33
***STAFF EDIT
@Aghavni has rolled a 6! She has been awarded +150 Signos for interacting with the flowers.
