Betwixt and Between (Magical Curio Shop Quest)

I'm gonna try update tonight! Stay tuned!

------------

If there was one thing Mahogany knew for sure is that these visions had communicated that she was not safe. It was easy to spend time on simple actions, days sweeping and cleaning another spent reading or looking idly out of windows. These basic tasks the ones that ask little of her felt good to complete, a little rush of progress. But is this the best use of her time? What benefit are they going to give her? Can she protect herself? Can she protect the Betwixt and Between?

She remembered the shadow play she had seen. The violence of Koshchei and the scrabbling, desperate pain of Bloyse as he was dragged bloody and screaming from what was his home. There was only one thing to do. She had to gather whatever resources she had. She had to finish her work in her manascape. Magic was needed, now more than ever.

With that resolution Mahogany laid down on the rug of Bloyse's study. She breathed deeply beginning a grounding exercise to slow her panicky heart. "What do you smell? Paper. Dust. Radiant amber and Honey. What do you Feel?" Her hand brushed the knotted plush rug. "Soft wool. What do you hear? My heartbeat was in my ears. and below that a slow hum of machinery. There is a wind outside that rattles the window." She breathed in and out slow and steady.

Closing her eyes she focused on her round of breath for a time, then on an inhale she chased the breath down, down, down into herself. She dove through the icy interior of her magics, so close to the surface now, and opened her eyes in the dark, cold cave.

---------------------------

A Keen Mind and a Clear Spirit. -AD 6
Completion Counter: 9/10
Failure Counter: 0/10
Skill: Magic of Craft
Difficulty: DANGEROUS
You have managed to find your manascape, in a dark cave in your soul. Spend time filling the basin on the Alter of Craft.

FINAL TOTAL (Action Dice 6 + Skill (Magic of Craft 0) = 6
Probability: 100% Great Success

---------------------------

She is so close to being complete. To reach the result of whatever this task was. Of course, she has hopes, that the completion of this will unlock her magic, and make whatever defect in her whole. But the work had reached that stage where there is only the last 10%. But that part.... that part is the hardest work. the greatest effort.

She has to drop the bucket all the way to the bottom of the well, where it hits the stone with a clunk and a very shallow splash. Pulling it up takes more and more effort, she has to use her own body as both anchor and lever wrapping the rough rope around herself to keep her progress. It takes her whole weight, her whole body against the impossibly heavy bucket. Once it reaches the lip of the well she can no longer lift it in her arms to carry it. She is on her hands and knees, robe soaked through to her blue, cold skin as she pushes it across the stone floor.

This construct of her labor that her mind and magic has made feels less and less like a metaphor and more like a trial. Mahogany's thoughts flit butterfly-like from story to fable and back to wonder tale. Trials of worth were common. Do you want this? What would you do to succeed?

She gritted her teeth to stop them chattering and strained herself to lift the bucket to pour it into the Alter of Craft. It was nearing full, this bucketful bringing it to the lip of the bowl, a wobbling water tension holding it back from spilling.

One more.

She trudged back to the well, throwing the bucket back into it. This time there was no splash, just a clunk as it hit the stone. She peered over the side uselessly into darkness. Was it empty? Is this where it ends?

"No. I refuse," she spoke, the statement echoing around the cave. She reached out and gripped the rope and in a reverse of her first time in this place lowered herself down into the dark. The light of the moss faded and the sound of her harsh breath echoed back from the claustrophobic walls of the well. She lowered herself slowly until a foot touched the bucket and then came to rest on the damp stone of the dry well.

With numb hands she bent in the cramped space, blindly seeking and scooping the last dregs of magic. She wonders what this metaphor her mind has constructed is actually doing? Was it, as she suspected, that she had been born without the connection between the magical source in her body and the element in her that 'did' magic? That missing connection was the only thing making her a joke among teachers and students. An apprentice only in name, an imposter of magic?

Was that what she was doing now? Walking this pathway, drawing up the magic on her own. Was she creating a pathway of her own? With repetition and effort carving a channel for her magic to flow from source to thought to action.

The last bucket takes all her effort to lift from the bottom of the well. Several times she loses her grip and the rope tears through the skin on her hands., Blood drips from her torn flesh and stains the cord, running down her arms to drip into the pools on the floor. As she focuses solely on her task the metaphor of the cave starts to fade away. The many pathways, the stalactites the luminous moss the now empty well fades away. And as the bucket rises to the top of the well the space she finds herself in is dark and featureless. The only light comes from the Alter of craft, filled with luminous magic, and the drops of her blood are scarlet and stark in this dark place.

She can feel something happening to her body, back in the paper-smelling room far, far, far from here. Breathing, choking, and heartbeat racing.
But it's easy to slide the physical away. She is focused.

The bucket will not be moved no matter how she lifts or pushes. So she dips her hands into the last of her source and scoops up a cupped handful of it. It burns, sinking into the cuts, stinging and slicing it mixes with her blood. It's like holding a cold flame in front of her as she walks slowly, and carefully. Cupped hands before her, a supplicant at her own alter. When she releases it into the bowl the magic falls from her hands in a stream of crimson sparks.

Lightheaded. Stumbling. Her vision blurs, and the lights of magic swims around her. And yet. And yet still she moves. The same steps. Handful by handful.

The last few drops in her hand, the final effort. And then Mahogany has truly done all she can do. She stands by the bowl, closes her eyes, sends out a quick hope into the universe, and then the last drops fall from slack fingers.

Each droplet falls into the basin like a falling star. Shining. Ringing. Magical.
It overflows in a torrential fountain. The metaphor shatters, no cave, no basin, and all space is filled with that silver cold burning. Mahogany has no time to run, to hold her breath, to anything. She is drowning in this magic, this source she has filled herself with to bursting. In the physical world, her body seizes on the floor knocking books over and gasping for air violently.

What to do?! She must think. A flicker of memory comes to her, one of the first classes she had ever attended in the Crystal towers.

The professor stood at the center of the room, "As Magus begins to draw upon more magic it is wise to put forethought into what form you wish your manascape to take. As you are young a simple construct is possible, some choose an object familiar to them. Maybe a shelf of books that can one day be expanded into a library. Or a sapling that will grow into the many branches of your discipline. "

He looks around the room, marking those who are not paying attention.

"Manascapes are both expression and fortress of your magic. Both the shape you evoke to manifest and the bonds that leash it to your control. Think carefully. Have insight into yourself and what you want."

Mahogany breathed in her source and on exhale a shape began to form.

What does your manascape look like?

[ ] Write in: