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Room 322, Saturday Midday
Dec. 19th, 2015 12:27 pmAnders' dreams had been worse than usual the last few nights, full of demons and the scents of mildew, stone and stale air he associated with the Circle. He felt haunted by them as he rose and prepared for the day. The island was up to something again, something darker than eggnog showers or aggressive mistletoe. You didn't need to be a mage to see that.
But it was one thing for him to know that, and quite another for him to suddenly feel a sting on his palm and look down to see blood welling to the surface. The sensation seemed oddly familiar, and he suddenly realized why he recognized it: They're making another phylactery.
Heat racing, he was staring stupidly at the blood when he suddenly heard Grand Enchanter Irving's voice. The man was trying to sound kind; he always tried to sound kind.
"There's no need to be frightened," he said, and even though Anders knew the Grand Enchanter was a world away he could still see him, clear as the first night he'd been at Kinloch Hold. "We'll heal you right up and get you into a nice bath as soon as we get a little bit of blood to keep you safe. And then you can go get to know the other children your age. They're all excited to have you here."
As he had five years before, Anders closed his fists tightly and struggled. His identification with his younger self was complete, as if it were happening all over again. Someone -- a templar, he realized -- was holding his wrists, and he was too small and skinny to get away. He compensated with a hard glare. This was wrong and mean and he didn't want this, he wanted to go home, he wanted to play with his friends and eat his mum's ram stew and see if his gray tabby had had her kittens yet and never ever go anywhere again. Not be here, in this strange place with these strange mages.
He prayed to the Maker to somehow lift the curse and free him from the burden of magic.
"He's not going to answer," the templar said in a clipped Marcher accent, interrupting the silent prayer with a jab of his elbow to Anders' ribs. (The Maker wasn't going to answer, either. He never did.) "Brat hasn't said a word since we picked him up. Best to just get this over with so he can go back to sulking."
"I hate doing it this way," Irving sighed, then looked across the room to address another enchanter. "Torrin, be ready in case things go wrong."
He waved a hand then, bathing Anders in a purple light that left him unable to move, and quickly picked up the bleeding hand and scraped a bit of blood into the prepared vessel. Anders watched in horror, as if it were happening to someone else. "See?" Irving said. The man even had the audacity to smile. "Now you're all set. Welcome to the Circle. You've got much to learn."
And like that, he was gone. Anders looked at his hand again. It was free of blood, but the tiny scar where he'd been cut for his phylactery kept tingling. He collapsed onto his bed and tried to wish it away.
[OOC: Open post. Thanks to DA:I for the inspiration]
But it was one thing for him to know that, and quite another for him to suddenly feel a sting on his palm and look down to see blood welling to the surface. The sensation seemed oddly familiar, and he suddenly realized why he recognized it: They're making another phylactery.
Heat racing, he was staring stupidly at the blood when he suddenly heard Grand Enchanter Irving's voice. The man was trying to sound kind; he always tried to sound kind.
"There's no need to be frightened," he said, and even though Anders knew the Grand Enchanter was a world away he could still see him, clear as the first night he'd been at Kinloch Hold. "We'll heal you right up and get you into a nice bath as soon as we get a little bit of blood to keep you safe. And then you can go get to know the other children your age. They're all excited to have you here."
As he had five years before, Anders closed his fists tightly and struggled. His identification with his younger self was complete, as if it were happening all over again. Someone -- a templar, he realized -- was holding his wrists, and he was too small and skinny to get away. He compensated with a hard glare. This was wrong and mean and he didn't want this, he wanted to go home, he wanted to play with his friends and eat his mum's ram stew and see if his gray tabby had had her kittens yet and never ever go anywhere again. Not be here, in this strange place with these strange mages.
He prayed to the Maker to somehow lift the curse and free him from the burden of magic.
"He's not going to answer," the templar said in a clipped Marcher accent, interrupting the silent prayer with a jab of his elbow to Anders' ribs. (The Maker wasn't going to answer, either. He never did.) "Brat hasn't said a word since we picked him up. Best to just get this over with so he can go back to sulking."
"I hate doing it this way," Irving sighed, then looked across the room to address another enchanter. "Torrin, be ready in case things go wrong."
He waved a hand then, bathing Anders in a purple light that left him unable to move, and quickly picked up the bleeding hand and scraped a bit of blood into the prepared vessel. Anders watched in horror, as if it were happening to someone else. "See?" Irving said. The man even had the audacity to smile. "Now you're all set. Welcome to the Circle. You've got much to learn."
And like that, he was gone. Anders looked at his hand again. It was free of blood, but the tiny scar where he'd been cut for his phylactery kept tingling. He collapsed onto his bed and tried to wish it away.
[OOC: Open post. Thanks to DA:I for the inspiration]
