[Closed] Practical Practice Makes Perfect

Charity begins to work on her magic, determined to never again be the damsel in distress under Damen's thumb.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Charity Valentin
Posts: 129
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 23
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: The voices aren't real, right?
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
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Sun Mar 31, 2019 11:24 pm

17th Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES HOME SWEET HOME | MID AFTERNOON
Image
The day was cold, dark and overcast, rain falling intermittently throughout the morning and easing off by midday. Within the two story house that Charity and Rhys now called home, there were pots and buckets set in specifically designated spots on the floor to catch the leaks that came through the roof when the rain fell too hard, though fortunately today it hadn’t been quite so bad. Just a drip in the upstairs study for the moment. A constant metronome that made the blonde Valentin feel like she might not be quite so alone in the property.

Of course, she wasn’t alone. Rhy’s was upstairs. Asleep. Or awake. He was here, in this house. Though he wasn’t home.

The galdor sat in the library, on the motheaten rug that covered the scuffed hardwood floor, the chill of winter seeping through the boards. The large dirty windows let in a hazy sort of grey light, but the room was almost dark. It was easy enough to see, with a couple of candles lit. Charity tugged the thick woolen shawl around her shoulders closer and and leaned over the grimore before her crossed legs. Her violet gaze read the scrawled markings of monite within the book carefully, field simmering quietly with a strange dottered sort of aura.

Something had broken in Charity Valentin.

Running her fingertips over the spell, the pianist lifted her eyes to stare at the flame, staring through it.

You should just give up. A voice said clear as a bell, snarky and deprecating, and very familiar. It was one she could never forget ever, one that would rattle around in the depths of her subconscious till she was an old woman on her deathbed. It was her father’s voice, a mocking deep baritone that sought to defile her every step of her life.

“I won’t.” She spoke out loud, glancing around the room with a frown and pulling the shawl closer. His voice had started, just the whisper of her own inner thoughts, not that long after they had moved into the house. At first, Charity had been frightened, utterly terrified. She couldn’t sleep, she could barely eat, it was nauseating. Alone, in the early hours of the night, she had hissed at it to shut up.

And it had replied. Responded. Quietened.

The galdor knew in her heart it couldn’t really be Damen, nor could it really be responding to her. That was preposterous. But something about the loneliness, and the rage burning in her justified it. Something in her mind accepted that it was normal to speak to it, normal to have it reply back. It helped her to cope, for the now at least. It gave her something tangible to rage at.

Glancing to the knife laid out beside the grimore, Charity picked it up, watching as the sharpened blade caught the edge of the flickering light. She turned it slowly, swallowing the fear that bubbled in her chest. Rhys had been almost killed by her father and his cronies, and she had been useless to help. With her outstanding Brunnhold entry testing, and all her high accolades in her formative years, she was useless. A human by comparison.

No longer.

Lifting her other hand, taking a few deep breaths to steel herself, the petite pianist moved to slice the knife rapidly across the upper inside of her arm. She hissed at the pain, dropping the knife and squeezing her free hand over the wound as it paled from shock before blood began to seep from within.

Should have aimed higher, cut deeper.

“Shut up.” She growled through grit teeth, watching the red fluid seep through her fingers and drip onto the worn rug under her. Taking another deep breath, the galdor focused on her field rather than the stinging pain in her arm, on the mona that danced around her and the less familiar Living particles. Looking down at the grimore, she incited the spell for Stitch Wound.

Dice Roll for Stitch Wound
SidekickBOTToday at 13:11
@Raksha: `d6` = (4) = 4


The healing began as an itch, a burning that centered within the wound, as the fibres of muscle and skin rebuilt themselves and wove together. Plasma blossomed, flesh puckered, making a raw but closed gash under her hand. The blonde smelt cinnamon and tasted copper, and as she drew her hand away carefully she smiled in satisfaction at the end result. Sweat had beaded on her brow, and her pulse raced in her veins. The effort of the spellwork she hadn’t attempted properly since Brunnhold was draining, but it wasn’t enough.

Pulling her field together, Charity turned the page and read through another spell. Reaching again for the Living particles, this time she collected Static as well in a basic Heal Tissue spell. As an added step she dragged heavily on the Quantitative that was far more familiar in her monic connection.

Dice Roll for Heal Tissue and Diagnose
SidekickBOTToday at 13:51
@Raksha: `2d6` = (6+5) = 11


Cinnamon with a hint of the fresh rains of summer came to her, and the stitched wound began to feel warm. It scabbed over, tingling as cells regenerated and multiplied, falling away to reveal a silvery scar underneath that faded from pink to a slightly paler color than her natural skin tone. As the spell worked, Charity was fed all sorts of data directly to her mind about the nuances of the spell and the biological intricacies of the healing. She pushed the spell, just a bit further, just to find the last dregs of the information she could glean.

Dice Roll for exertion
SidekickBOTToday at 14:10
@Raksha: `d6` = (1) = 1


Like the jarring of teeth smacked together, the less familiar Living and Static particles pushed back against the spell-weary galdor, and the casting fell apart with a ringing in her ears. Charity gasped, not realizing she’d been holding her breath in the first place, panting and trembling with the effort.

Oh please, that’s not effort. That’s barely a nic. You’re still as useless now as you were before.

Pulling a kerchief from her pocket, the blonde dabbed away the sweat from her face, wiping at the blood on her hand that had already dried. Leaning in, she blew out the candle and stood slowly, holding the door of an open book cabinet for balance.

“You have no idea what I am capable of. What I will be capable of.” Charity said with a breathless chuckle, moving to lift sweat soaked hair off her neck and raising her chin. Field weary and body exherted, the pianist left the library to make her way down to the kitchen. Drawing water from the pipes, she washed away the stain on her hands and her arms, before splashing it on her face. Leaning against the sink, she took a few deep breaths.

She needed to do it again.


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