Not enough time, not enough time.
There were locks on Gareth's door, but there wasn't any point to them. He'd lock it from the inside if he thought it would do him any good. He pulled up a floorboard to find a bottle of moonshine infused with nightshade flowers. Not enough to kill a demonspawn, though he drank it like it might. He shoved the cork back in, stuck it back into the floor next to contraband books and jars of illegal plants. He was already dizzy when he slid underneath his bed, barely fitting if he made himself flat. His back left blood on the floor, wounds pulling back open, horns scraping beneath his head. His tail felt like it might fall off. He'd get his first aid kit out in the morning; it'd be fine.
For now, his bleeding arms were more an asset then a hindrance.
On his fifteenth birthday, he'd used charcoal to draw a desummoning circle onto the wood of his bed. He'd found it in a book he'd stolen from the rubble of the court wizard's tower six months earlier. It hadn't worked the way he'd thought it might, but it had ended up useful enough. He'd scratched it into the wood with his carving knife not long after, not wanting to risk that it'd get smudged or washed out. The lines of it were all stained brown by now.
He pulled a metal nail from the leg of the bed, and used it to scratch another line into the wall above his head. He had a vague idea that at some point, he'd start seeing some ill effects from this. That might be useful, later. Some kind of value to magical studies.
This was his own fault, of course. This always happened with sparring. He always told himself he was going to lose, this time, the way he was supposed to. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd just lose.
But Ranulf fucking sucked, was the thing. And it was always such a satisfying thirty seconds, while it lasted.
He rubbed his hands over the bites their swords had taken from his forearms, which he could already tell would need stitches. It didn't hurt too badly now, what with the poison. He could hear footsteps and laughing in the hallway, and his heart raced. Once his palms were properly bloodied, he shoved them up against the careful geometry of his circle.
It wasn't quite instantaneous, the way it tore him apart. There was always a second or two where he could feel it, ripping away from his bones. Then he was gone.
Not physically. He was still there, under his bed. Would still be there when they opened the door. But he wasn't there, was the important thing, wasn't stuck in his skin for whatever might happen to it between now and when he snapped back into it like a bowstring about to break.
He wasn't ever going to be much of a wizard, but it was better than nothing.
There were locks on Gareth's door, but there wasn't any point to them. He'd lock it from the inside if he thought it would do him any good. He pulled up a floorboard to find a bottle of moonshine infused with nightshade flowers. Not enough to kill a demonspawn, though he drank it like it might. He shoved the cork back in, stuck it back into the floor next to contraband books and jars of illegal plants. He was already dizzy when he slid underneath his bed, barely fitting if he made himself flat. His back left blood on the floor, wounds pulling back open, horns scraping beneath his head. His tail felt like it might fall off. He'd get his first aid kit out in the morning; it'd be fine.
For now, his bleeding arms were more an asset then a hindrance.
On his fifteenth birthday, he'd used charcoal to draw a desummoning circle onto the wood of his bed. He'd found it in a book he'd stolen from the rubble of the court wizard's tower six months earlier. It hadn't worked the way he'd thought it might, but it had ended up useful enough. He'd scratched it into the wood with his carving knife not long after, not wanting to risk that it'd get smudged or washed out. The lines of it were all stained brown by now.
He pulled a metal nail from the leg of the bed, and used it to scratch another line into the wall above his head. He had a vague idea that at some point, he'd start seeing some ill effects from this. That might be useful, later. Some kind of value to magical studies.
This was his own fault, of course. This always happened with sparring. He always told himself he was going to lose, this time, the way he was supposed to. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd just lose.
But Ranulf fucking sucked, was the thing. And it was always such a satisfying thirty seconds, while it lasted.
He rubbed his hands over the bites their swords had taken from his forearms, which he could already tell would need stitches. It didn't hurt too badly now, what with the poison. He could hear footsteps and laughing in the hallway, and his heart raced. Once his palms were properly bloodied, he shoved them up against the careful geometry of his circle.
It wasn't quite instantaneous, the way it tore him apart. There was always a second or two where he could feel it, ripping away from his bones. Then he was gone.
Not physically. He was still there, under his bed. Would still be there when they opened the door. But he wasn't there, was the important thing, wasn't stuck in his skin for whatever might happen to it between now and when he snapped back into it like a bowstring about to break.
He wasn't ever going to be much of a wizard, but it was better than nothing.
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