notes // NOTES HERE

[attr="class","itemsclaire"]items used //

Standing before the doors that lead up to her practical exam, Ling is beginning to think that maybe she's made a mistake. Not in her written exam, no - she wouldn't be here otherwise; no, the mistake might have been taking this whole adept test. Which she had basically signed up for on a whim, to support an older friend who actually wants the rank of adept. Because in no way whatsoever is Ling actually expecting to pass.

In all honesty, she didn't even think she'd pass the written portion. I mean, a sixteen year old? A sixteen year old runescripter without a 'more useful' second affinity? She didn't even prepare for this; she's not quite sure why or how she got to even novice in the first place, though she happily accepts that apprentice sounds about right. And yet, she's here now, actually, legitimately trying to obtain the rank of adept while the friend she had come here to support is now supporting her, having failed the written portion of his test.

How is this her life.

See, Ling's not even quite sure what she wants to do with her life, beyond the fact that she's definitely not giving up runescripting, and that she wants to get into Lux. She certainly doesn't know if she wants to be an actual people-saving monster-killing active-duty witch - she spends half her time curled away in the library, for heavens sake! What use is a high rank if she just wants to go into research and development? It's not like it's the equivalent of a degree...

Or maybe it is. Hey, there's a thought. Maybe, if she got the adept rank, she'd be able to use it to convince the professors of Lux to let her in early. She's only a year or two younger than most their undergrad students now anyways, surely this can stand in for an academic record?

Now a lot more convinced that she actually wants this ( even if not exactly for the purposes most would think ), she eyes the closed doors with a heady mix of excitement and nerves. Can she do this? Fuck yeah she can.

notes go here,this automatically enlarges so it's fine ouo.

— ASHNIRAI ♥ ♥ ♥ —

[attr="class","wonwoo"]

The essay is not difficult. He’d read more material than he could count on his affinities in an attempt to better understand them and improve them. It’s hard to put magical theory on something he learned so naturally, so he struggled with weaving, but purification was pure magical theory. He alone registers for this exam, and he alone takes his essay prompt to his room at the coven, locks the door, and writes. He drafts it multiple times before finally culling the behemoth of information into two pages which he turns in the next day. Within the hour, he’s approved for the practical and he suppresses a quiet smile as he begins relaying the information to the most important parties. His grandparents, Rosario and Macintosh are the first he thinks of, nervous but eager to let them know. Then there’s Charani Petrov , who he reveals the news to with a bright grin and a hug. Then there’s his strange ‘uncle’ Desmond Grey , who although he’s a recent addition to Aiden’s familiarity, his close bond with his family earns him the right to know. Shyly, he tells claire fermont and asks her for advice. He even tells líng lù-xī , someone who is sure to appreciate the news especially if Lux University is what helped push him this far. And then finally…the Emersons. He must, must inform his patrons, who’s influence have allowed him the opportunity to study so hard, learn so fast. They do not let him forget why.

The day of the practical he’s nervous, fidgety. He doesn’t see anyone beforehand, going over and over spells and magical theory and reminding himself how fucking big his catalogue of spells has become. He remembers that bastard purifier who mocked his lack of skill, and heat rises to his cheeks in fury. Look where he was now! Aiden couldn’t imagine that same person was still leagues ahead of him. But he would catch up soon enough. He had too. He had to. His eyes snap at the sound of heels clicking as a proctor nods at him, giving him a few instructions before large white doors open before him to a large domed room. He cannot see the seats, blocked to help ease the nerves, but he knows there are eyes on him. Especially…for how he’s chosen to dress. Today he wears no crests of the family, no uniform of the knights, just ripped jeans, muddied shoes, and a hoodie. This is his achievement, and his alone.

He takes center stage, a lone mannequin waiting for him. Aiden has an image in mind. It’s not the most fashionable, but it’s decent and the perks are even better. Weaving is a beautiful art, but more importantly it’s so wonderfully subtle, unnoticeable. His taste in clothes almost mask his gift, because this is a gift, clashing violently with a stereotype of high fashion and taste. What he does not have in style he makes up for in speed and dexterity. From a pouch at his side he pulls a spool of thread, thick fabrics, and a pair of golden bird-like shears Grandma Rosario would recognize, polished religiously in anticipation for this. Aiden works, and within an instant the shine of mana is clear and threads move wildly around tugged and stitched and pulled so quickly with memorized ease. It’s seared into his mind, imprinted into his fingers. He weaves, and soon enough the shape starts to come through, the stitching, cutting, and sewing all coalesce together into a pastel yellow peacoat, with an equally light-colored scarf.

After plucking his final thread he pulls out liquids like a salesman, holding it up for all. Before tossing it in a splatter over his own creation. First its coffee, which quickly drips to the floor. Then a dark blue dye, and finally a small vial of acid. He proves this by letting a few drops fall on the back of his hand. The skin turns red in protest but he merely grimaces, unwilling to stop before tossing it onto his work once more. It all slides to the ground, and there’s even a little bit of smoking as some of it catches onto the mannequin’s feet. That’s fine. He carefully puts on the ensemble, holding up his hand as it works its magic. The back of his hand glows lightly and the skin begins to heal. It stings a little but after a few seconds the wound is gone, and the skin is back as it was before. He’s finished, but they aren’t quite done with him just yet. The lights grow dim, and another set of doors opens, pushing out what seemed to be an overgrown purple alligator with bright white eyes and drool falling from its snout. There’s a pause before it charges forward.

And after a moment of thought, Aiden lets it. It comes for legs first, clamping down on his right and shaking him like a rag doll, and Aiden can’t help but let out a yell in surprise as the drool, he realizes, is acid. And he grins at the irony of those stuffy bastards and as he bleeds and flesh sears and bruises form and bone begins to bend dangerously. Aiden rips the scarf off his neck, which managed to stay perfectly in place, and tosses it into the beast’s eyes. The wretched thing comes to life embodying his anger, his hate, his frustration within every stich. The pale yellow thing springs forward sliding around the reptile’s thick neck and it yanks hard, forcing open the jaws for its master. Aiden pulls away, and now free watches his work in action for the very first time. It squeezes so hard, so awfully hard. The beast cries out, wheezing, gasping. He hears crushing of bones and moves back further as the monster writhes in pain before the scarf gives one final tug and it goes limp in its grasp. He looks down at his leg and notes that while his jeans are ruined, the gory bite is starting to heal, and the burnt flesh is starting to pull together. He stands up once more, observing his peacoat and scarf. No stains, no frays, no burns. And the lights go on and he is allowed to leave.

He is greeted by family and friends. His grandparents rush forward, Macintosh roughly patting him on the back, Rosario squeezing the life out of him. Then comes Charani Petrov with a just as bone crushing hug and a laugh like wind chimes. He doesn’t see that weird uncle, but Aiden can guess why as after a few moments, his friend releases him and Aiden catches sight of them: the Emersons. Grandmother Marjorie stands poised, studying him and the unblemished peacoat he wears, no doubt prickly for picking weaving over purification. Grandfather Warren stands beside her, unreadable. His eyes seem to stare through him, almost as if staring back at another time and Aiden shivers. He pulls away from his family, his close friend, and he strides forward to speak to them. “Congratulations. The family and the coven are proud of you.” Is all they say but it sounds more matter a fact than with feeling and on continues Aiden’s relationship with his patrons. A means to an end. They leave, with murmurs of organizing a celebration for him sometime throughout the week or the next, the announcement ready to ring throughout the Helios Knights, but he barely cares.

He is back with his family, happy, comfortable, close together in the Hovel. It’s easy sleep that takes him, and cold that rouses him. As he pulls away from warm hands and soft breathing, McKenna materializes beside him. They have to go somewhere before it’s all over and done with. They must. Like thieves in the night, Aiden leaves with his beloved familiar and the two take towards dark streets, and a cold night. They walk into the graveyard, humble slabs of stone dotting the grounds and the whisper of wind through leaves their only friend. He doesn’t have flowers, only a singular lemon tart, and the good news. They move in silence, steps light as they pick their way towards her. McKenna keeps him company as he tells the story to this stone slab, this last connection with his mother. He hopes she can hear him. And his whispers melt into the night sky and he’s so happy and so relieved and so sad at the same time because “I miss you so much, mom.” And he can’t help but shake because even through all of this it still hurts in milestones like these.

Time ticks by and McKenna does not stir him, as Aiden sits in the dark, quiet. And then he gets up. And then so does McKenna. They slip back, leaving behind a grave and one lemon tart. And then they stop at the entrance. Wet eyes are drawn to a beautiful envelope sitting on the wall of the cemetery. The white of it reflects moonlight and the emerald green wax seal twinkles with some sort of unearthly light. It’s odd but nevertheless, he steps towards it. In beautiful, golden script is his name. Aiden. Something’s wrong here, and Mckenna grows closer sensing the building distress in her witch’s heart as he cracks the nearly perfect seal.

“Congratulations. —Dad.”

And his blood runs c o l d.