revivalproject | Open | My Oh My That Moon's A Fright

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Open | My Oh My That Moon's A Fright

WHO: Lark and You
WHERE: Temba Whale Comb Sent Her, Temba in general
WHAT: Storm affecting a mage by manifesting ghost-devils, and driving her magic wild
WHEN: During the storm
WARNINGS: First starter involves possible crushing/choking risks from magic gone wrong, or possible nudity (listen she's a thread mage), Second starter involves ghost-demons that will attempt to hunt people down.

I. Thread Magic Gone Wrong | CW: Magic might strangle/restrain/choke those approaching her wearing fabric, or may fall off a person completely

No amount of hiding from the storm could guarantee one would come out of it well. This was something Lark realized quite early on the first day. The fog was thick, almost magically so, not that she could sense it. Not that she could sense anything. All of her power had shuddered away from her when the fog had come, leaving Lark horribly nauseous and anxious. She had rarely felt so drained in her life, and she longed for the teas Rosethorn created that might soothe her.

Weak and tired as she was, Lark resolved she had to find something to soothe her belly. Mint collected from the greenhouse she thought as she looked out from the Whale Comb Sent Her and save the evening clear. The fog had retreated, and not thinking to look up, Lark resolved that she must seek supplies now if she was ever to find any. Tea leaves first, then perhaps she would try and set out for the ships.

So she slipped out into the night, not aware of the danger she was putting herself into as she strode out into the open night.

She didn't make it too far from the doors before it happened. A scream tearing through the air, the moon's call shaking through her and through the city. With it came Lark's magic in a rush, swelling within her in a tide she could not center and control, before it started screaming free of her, seeking threads and fibers and cloth around her to grab, to pull at.

Any fibers around her might easily be caught in this burst of raw magic, and oh but the horrid ways the pulling could go. Seams might give and clothes fall off from around the one wearing them, before the cloth and strings and fibers might try crawling toward Lark. Worse, though, might well be the threads that could not so easily pull themselves free, for those could quite easily contract, squeezing and constricting painfully around wherever they hang, as Lark's own habit did now. The green clad mage was soon screaming in pain as her own clothes started to constrict around her, crushing at her limbs and causing her to collapse.

II. The Ghost-Demons Are Real | CW: Chance of being hunted/attacked by a demon

There is quite a bit to be said for how unprepared Lark was for all of this. She'd heard talk of the storms of course, but the last two that had come she had found herself in Sh'Ka during. All she knew of them she had heard from others, and so it did not prepare her for what was coming now. A figure in the fog, a flash of green robe and crimson hair.

"Rosie?" Lark gasped, then gave chase after her. "Rosie, it's not safe outside!"

She followed the figure, and froze only when a flash of crimson light cut the air above her, lightning almost seeming to shriek. As the light faded the mist around her grew dark, swirling and shifting until it became quite like the form of a floating beast, eyes crimson, claws razor sharp, and oh but it reached for her.

"Yerui," she whispered, eyes wide as she started to back away. "Oh Mila, it can't be."

And with that she turned and ran blindly into the fog, intent on flight.

III. Tired But Sheltered

Hiding. She was hiding. Lark was very aware of this fact. Dealing with the Yerui, dealing with her magic gone wrong, it was all far too terrible. Lark, strong and experienced mage, Dedicate Initiate of the winding circle and thus in many ways priestess of a goddess, woman who had seen so many horrible things in her past, was hiding.

Cowering.

The very idea of it left a bad taste in her mouth, and Lark had to push it from her mind as she laid there in the Whale Comb Sent Her, trying to rest. Rest was not nearly so simple as it might have been, though.

"How long until this horror might pass," she asked of the room around her. "Oh Mila, let it not be long.

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She has a point, but also Dustin is a mopey, sullen teenager that won't let shit die. He moves his head a fraction to affix Lark with an exhausted glare.

"You started it."

"Yes, but I was inviting conversation. By engaging, did you not agree to the conversation and suggest it should continue?"

Seemed rather rational her to her to take it like that.

"I was trying to--"

Dustin gets as far as propping himself up on an elbow before he realizes the futility of his own argument.

"--Oh, just fucking forget it," he groans, slumping back onto his jacket. "It's not like I'm gonna be able to go back to sleep anyway. Throw a goddamn rave for all I care. Too fucking tired for this shit."

And here she doesn't even know what a rave was.

"Then please, by all means, I wish you good rest."

Dustin huffs a loud, exaggerated sigh and buries his head into his jacket, making a show of trying to slouch his shoulders over his ears. And for a little bit after that, he does earnestly try to rest. Dustin would like nothing more than to go to sleep and forget everything that's happened to him since the storm started.

And yet, he's finding that those memories are some of the few he can remember with striking clarity. They play on the back of his lids every time he closes his eyes. It's not like he can even competently use this information, what with his brain being a broken piece of crap - so why won't they just go away? How do people handle shit like this?

Maybe they just...distract themselves into thinking about something else. At the very least, Lark is in Dustin's line of sight every time he blinks his eyes open after failing to fall asleep, and their brief exchange is just as prescient in his mind as everything else. This makes her as good a target as any, much like she did for his anger earlier. Thankfully for Lark, when Dustin finally settles on an answer roughly ten minutes later, he sounds a lot more mellowed. Resigned.

"...That's bullshit," he mutters. "You're panicking about this just as much as I am."

Yes, he was very much a youth like those she knew and helped raise back home. So this behavior was not so surprising to her. She's even used to moping leading to some resigned acceptance later.

"I am," she agrees. "The storm has done horrid things to my magic. And made me afraid that it shall once more go wild. Now I cannot even turn to my normal comforts, for fear that somehow my magic should make them dangerous."

Dustin glances up, glaring in suspicion. "Then you don't have any right to tell me what to do," he says tersely. Never mind that Lark hasn't told him to do anything directly, but it feels that way. "You're just as lost about what to do as everyone else."

"I have not claimed to be otherwise," she reminds the young man, her voice quite patient with him. As if she expected he might well review his own words and remember that.

Regardless of if Dustin had his superhuman recall back or if he simply decided to think on his short-term memory, he elects not to. At this point he's just being obstinate for the sake of being obstinate.

"You're too damn calm," Dustin fires back.

"Yes," she said, "perhaps I am. However, I see nothing achieved by panicking in this moment. I've already dealt with my panic by now."

And falling back into it would be worse.

Dustin is surprised at himself when he realizes that he would feel better if Lark said she was still panicking. It's not even a superiority thing; he wants to feel like he's not the only one freaking the fuck out, and seeing her keep such a level head in spite of his own anxiety is, frankly, a little intimidating.

"I don't believe you," Dustin mumbles, but his body language betrays him. He shrinks back into his jacket pillow, fixes his gaze on a spot on the floor next to his face, and goes silent.

"That is alright," she says, before rolling to her feet from where she had been lying down. She scooped up her other blanket and moved to the side of the youth, offering it silently to him.

"It is already to be anxious about all of this. And even scared. I have just had a good deal of practice facing such things."

Dustin doesn't move or say anything at first - he's too disappointed in himself to trust his words, but also too prideful to accept any attempts at reconciliation. Eventually, after a bit of uncomfortable shifting around on the floor, Dustin reaches up and grabs the blanket away from Lark.

"Like what?

There it was. Young men were always so different.

"Well, silly as it might seem to compare them I feel it is a fitting one but... There is a thing in my world called anti-magic. It consumes all magic around it, feeding on it. It can easily kill a mage, and those born with it as well. It corrupts the mind and body. There was one in the city near the temple recently. It was horrifying."

Dustin busies himself with getting as tightly wrapped in this blanket as possible. He's quite cold, since he's using his outermost layer of clothes as a pillow, and the rest are back in his shop that he hasn't been able to find in the fog.

"Is it the lack of magic that kills, or the anti-magic entity itself?" Dustin asks, once he's thoroughly cocooned himself and curled up more comfortably on the ground. "Assuming the latter - otherwise you'd be dead."

At least the blanket is already warm from her body heat.

"A bit of both. This poor young man was being used as a tool for assassination," she answered. "Mages can survive their magic being burned out, though, provided it's not pulled from them in the course of their own magic, which can pull the soul with it. So yes, death is a very real risk."

Being used - very relatable. Dustin shivers, either in response to that or the fact that his body is trying to aggressively warm back up under the blanket.

"So...as long as you don't try to use your magic while you don't have any, you're safe?" he asks, looking faintly puzzled. Then, expression darkening suddenly, Dustin shakes his head. "--Never mind, don't bother. It's not like I'll remember it anyway."

"Yes and no," she answered, very tired over the idea of explaining it. "But for now, we are likely safe from it. And why would you not remember?"

Dustin seems likewise exasperated. "Because my memory sucks and I'm an idiot," he sighs melodramatically. Neither of these things are necessarily true - his memory is average, and he probably still has more rote knowledge than your typical 16-year-old - but his whole identity is based off of being better than that. Without his abilities, he's kind of having an identity crisis.

"I don't believe I shall allow such cruel comments aimed at yourself," Lark answered, frowning at him. "You seem wise enough to me for a young man your age. And memory is not something you can control."

"Too late," Dustin mumbles, curling further into the blanket so it covers the bottom half of his face. Lark's praise glances off of him like water beading off a raincoat; he doesn't feel wise enough to accept it. "And yes - it is. It absolutely is. You don't understand."

Oh she just wants to chuckle at that, but she holds back and sits gracefully beside him.

"Yes I do. I may be older now, but I was young once. And I have helped raise a number of children. I do get it."

Irritation bubbles in Dustin's chest. His superhuman memory might be shot, but he can still remember, vividly, trying to level with his adopted mother's coworkers and being talked down to - the immense frustration and resentment he felt, every time. "Not a child," Dustin hisses, voice tight. "You really, really don't get it. It's not..."

He trails off. The issue is with his powers, of course, but admitting as much would mean admitting that he has powers at all. Proving a point to Lark isn't worth doing that.

"...Whatever. Forget I said anything."

"And what is it that you think I don't get?" Lark answered, raising an eyebrow. Because she's hoping to stop him stewing.

That might be an exercise in futility. Dustin doesn't answer, instead shooting Lark a wilting glare before pulling the blanket up over his face, going full burrito in protest.

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stitch_witch - 2022-11-23 02:04 (UTC) - Expand

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