Welcome to Gaia! ::

you don't want to be around when it all goes down...

”Well isn’t it obvious?” He nearly spat, words thrown into the air with utmost haste and raw frantic vehemence ushered in a venomous whisper. At this, he pursed his lips, tight, jaw clenched rigidly austere—he nearly thought the bone would crack beneath his flesh. Nostrils flared as he resisted the urge to snort out with disdain, the corners of his lip twitching into a sneer. ”That book knows everything about my family,” Tay’s British voice chimed clear and true. ”—And everything about me, if, you know where to look. But that—“ He exhaled deeply, clearly crumbling beneath a weight far too great and golden, bloodstained over too many generations to begin to understand.

”That demon isn’t in me anymore, and that should be where your priorities lie, Phinelia…” But before the clockwork of cogs and gears could churn in a rush, he cut off all thought of motion with a sinister murmur, it would take every ounce of concentration to lean in, quiet all thoughts, and listen.

you don't want to be around when it all goes down...

Eyes of gold held cold, furious and writhing, uncontrolled, raw and untame, though ridden with guilt and heavy with forlorn stress and titillating woe. He nodded shortly, only able to hold her molten eyes for so long—so eerily familiar, but where—and then she departed up the towers. A breath held in the restrictions of his throat suddenly let loose and he slid to the floor in solitude. Shrunken in the darkness, the Ravenclaws few and far in between had never once noticed the hollow of a young man perched and shrouded in the darkness he had been born into. When hurrying footsteps alerted his ears, he stood immediately, eyes focused upon the book in her hands that his fingers had yearned to pry away for so long. Tearing his gaze back to meet hers, he had ushered her over to where he had been perched, and sat himself. It was then that her voice spurred sure and true, and with a look of pure shock (not ever attempted to be hidden) he ushered her to sit beside him in the shadows, far from the staircase that led up to the tower.

”He’s not supposed too, but, he has a mind of his own.” He lied. The book only ever spoke to those who were, in any form or fashion—one of kin. Eyes wide with gold accusations the thoughts of Krina Rosier had fluttered in his mind, one of debts.

”Sit, open the book, it’d be best if you held it.” He spoke, soft and still, the calm before the storm. When the book was opened, the faithful guardian stood noble and vigil. ”Ser, to my chapter.”

”As the heir commands,” the beast growled brusquely, regal and defined, rising on all fours he padded from the left page to the right, and as he flittered through pages, the leaflets flown themselves, guided by the wind of magic of the mastiff. ”Third Year of Hogwarts—Roi,” Not another word spoken, and the chapters whirred violent and rampant, the guardian only a ghostly silhouette in its tome until all it once; it stopped.

The open pages were aged a crisp yellow hue, but ink and colors and shapes bled through the leaflets to create a fiery scene of a tormented boy—the demon within always a ghastly imprint upon his features—stumbling headfirst into the previous office of the cursebreaking professor, Horrus Hallia, wandless and defenseless. Roi had him then, darkness knit his features and blots and sears of red ink seared the eyes of once illustrious gold, black furious ink scratched outline of a king once known. With a sudden vibrant flush of bleeding red, a spell shot from professor to student and the boy growled and crumpled down, a near lifeless shell. Spirits raged, blues and greens and red clashed upon the image of the boy in the page, sprawled across the castle stone floors until finally—the green settled, and the soft stroke of youth inked his features. The black and red contorted rolled, and thrashed, though it seemed not even the professor in these memories could see it. A black box guarded within the Egyptian professor absorbed the blacks and the reds until only a single image appeared; a boy and his professor.

”….Ser,” the young duke cleared his throat, ”—the next meeting.”

A flurry of spectral winds guided the pages, fluttering for only several moments until it ceased to motion and the pages were stark white. Small, creeping hues of earthy colors, of yellows, of whites had hovered into the page, indiscernible. Colors seeped through the page to paint a boy of auburn and gold, stalking headfirst down into the dungeons and in through an abandoned room. The unknown colors hovering grew closer in the page, larger and larger, above the blotched ink of the boy in the dungeon. Owls with letters, they crept to the page and perched at the corners in white with letters addressed from the ancient king himself. He hadn’t known how, or where, Roi had gone. But the painted boy of gold darted within the classroom and spoke, darkened silhouettes faded into the image gently and easily, the image of the callous Slytherin girl, a boy of blonde, blues and bronze, and then another, too familiar boy, clad in regal reds and benevolent gray eyes—red bleeding through his sights, black caressing every sinister feature of an abandoned king. The red boy spoke, a growl of a voice echoed eerie, and unknown. Respectful praise and bowed heads to this boy, as he snarled and spat and stood an iron beacon of fire. ”That’s enough, Ser.”

And it all vanished with a flash of magic, the Bullmastiff padding in gentle and silent and serene, inquisitive. With a tight throat, he turned his gaze to meet Phinelia's in silence.