I was raised in a deep dark hole, a prisoner with no parole
they locked me up and took my soul, ashamed of what they made
Vikander didn’t care much for the newcomers to the Scarab. He didn’t care about the business and drama revolving around Raum. He didn’t care about the mysterious island that made a general uproar among the populace of Novus. He didn’t care about how Senna seemed far more interested in Solterra’s empty throne or the Halcyon Unit of Terrastella. He didn’t care that he had locked himself away in his room once more, not even opening the door for Aghavni or August when they came knocking to remind him to eat.they locked me up and took my soul, ashamed of what they made
He didn’t care about any of it.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
He cared about Lieve. He cared about his work. He cared about his research, his studies, and the dead body of his beloved still hidden away in the attic safely within his chamber. He slaved, obsessed, and experimented. It worked once, why would it not work a second time? Why could he not bring her back?! No matter his efforts and the resources he gathered, paying coin after coin for a plethora of rare ingredients, he simply could not bring her back. Nothing worked. Nothing could replicate the effects his magic and spells had upon bringing his daughter back from the dead, and it had drained him, dampening his hopes and aspirations time and time again until the clawing hands of dark depression became the familiar cloak he wore with biting words and burning self-loathing.
Lieve’tel was his only saving grace. His beautiful, innocent daughter brought a light into his otherwise dark and lonely life, her sweet voice becoming the new balm to soothe the stinging wounds left behind whenever the dark bouts of depression were through with him. It was by her whim that he ate, albeit rarely.
His weight had dropped. His coat had begun to lose its shine. The sleepless nights were getting the best of him and his mood began to reflect it. Reclusive as he was, even with Lieve’s help and presence, the desire to remain locked within his chambers out of the eyes of the Scarab had been too powerful to ignore. Days, weeks, months passed by, swirling around him while he remained stagnant.
Before he knew it, Raum either died or was killed, leaving Solterra’s throne empty. Someone stepped up to claim it. Vikander didn’t care enough to learn who it was. Changes happened in Delumine, in Terrastella. He didn’t care.
He just didn’t care.
It was the annoying pain of hunger that finally dragged Vikander from his room and into the larder of the Scarab, grabbing a loaf of bread, some honey from the local topiary, and a sweet cake for Lieve. Turning on his heels, the Friesian was just about to step out into the hall and quickly shuffle back to his room when a brilliantly colored shape had the nerve to obstruct his path.
Icy blue eyes narrowed as he regarded Valefor. Vikander hadn’t talked to him since their unfortunate first meeting, when he had given the blubbering fool his mark of the Scarab. Heaving a breath and hunching his shoulders, the Warlock ground his teeth together as he tensed beneath the heavy folds of his black cloak. He wished, briefly, that he’d had the mindset to put the hood up before leaving his room.
”Move.” The order was growled out dangerously, a raspy false promise of pain in hopes of intimidating the fire-colored fellow to move the hell out of his way. Valefor may be taller, but Vikander was not one to be trifled with, especially when in such a dark, dangerous mood.
@Valefor - Oops.
