#hope Crow picked out Nathaniel's spells and metamagics XD

[soraavalon]

DM: Nathaniel, the last thing you see before you're pulled into the bag and whispered 'Don't follow me' are your friends holding onto the rope trying to reach you desperate, you know of course that they will, but you beg them anyways. For a moment there is darkness, as the leather falls across your eyes and then you are being pulled into the infinite emptiness between the planes of existence; an extradimensional void. The hands around your mouth and throat are like an ice-cold vice, dragging you deeper and deeper into the place where the raw arcana of the universe is woven. You can, in fact, see the threads of pure magical energies stretching out in all directions, no end in sight as they intertwine and interlock. The ones nearest to you; a sapphire blue so bright that they burn the cones of your eyes and make them ache to try and comprehend it. You know the feeling of these threads, something in them speaking of Moriarty, as you are dragged past them towards white threads of pure light. You watch the distant ones begin to smolder and crumble and in a burst of what looks like flame, they fall away, leaving you floating through this endless void as the Bag Man is dragging you deeper into it. You are unsure of how escape for a moment until a thread comes past you as it's changing direction, crimson this one, and you recognize this thread or rather the feeling of it that deafening hum of energy matching a song that you never knew that you knew; this is your magic which you imbued into the bag that you gave to Hunt. You are passing by it and then into it as the Bag Man is just dragging you through its paths, drowning in your own creation, your own arcane workings smothering you as you are dragged into a space, that by all accounts, you should never have been allowed to slip.

DM: You realize too late that it will consume you and has already begun to do so. Nothing mortal should be alive here, in this place of pure, raw power and the impossibility of it threatens your very being. Panic and dread start to fill your throat and chest, centered around a cold, heavy realization; this is how you're going to die. Your friends will never know what exactly happened after you were stolen from them, they'll pique (?) wondering how they can get to you, possibly even following you into this space of magic in spite of your warnings where they'll unravel in turn, one by one until they're gone too. Or they'll let you go and carry on without you as other have before, maybe someone else will be hired in your stead. Maybe Moriarty will write to one of his many friends and family and have one of them take your place. He'll craft his arcane armor and you won't see it finished, maybe he'll finish the doll without you too now that there's a plan for it. Maybe Tark will dig up Amelia without you, asking the questions of a sleuthing stranger and not of a grieving son. Hunt will make her fortunes without you. Eudora will finish her new prototype without you, maybe she'll find her husband and you won't know if he ever met your father or if they were simply tangled in the same web of coincidence. Maybe Nicholas will come home and you won't be there to confront him. Maybe Charlotte and Alexander will be writing a letter to a dead man, maybe someone will tell them. Maybe someone will tell Calliope too. Maybe Rosaline will ask where you are and they'll tell her too.

DM: A scream tears from you, not a sound of fear or even agony, but a sudden fierce determination. This is your arcana, this magic is woven by you, yours to control and shape and you will not surrender to it. You reach out, refusing to succumb, grasping for any way to drag yourself out of here and back to the people you've come to care for. Back to every unfinished work and unanswered question and your gauntleted hand closes around one of the red threads. The sensation is indescribable, it burns searing hotter than any fire yet there is no pain. The gauntlet made to store and channel the same energy that surrounds you sparks blindlingly, you flinch and so does the Bag Man, his grip slipping long enough for you to grit your teeth and pull yourself away. And your exposed hand closing around the thread which crumbles like sand under your fingers, bursting into sparks that sear your throat and eyes are you breath them in. You grab the next thread with your protected hand and there's enough leverage to pull yourself further along, your arm feels like it's twisting and pinched and contorting around the bone, but you keep going and pull yourself forward. Your magic falls away and your bare touch filling your lungs and mouth fill with the white hot essence of arcana while your gauntlet, even as it burns around your skin allows you to climb back to the exit; A dark tear in what can only be described as the sky. You blink the spots and sparks out of your eyes, hand closing around the edge of the opening, your fingers touching leather jaw clenched , you haul yourself out of the bag and into darkness.

Hunt, sitting there in your room, you hear a thud inside your chest.

Hunt: I go to open it.

DM: You open it to see Nathaniel. Nathaniel, the chest tips over as she opens it and you immediately fight the darkness, you roll onto the floor and as you hit the ground that's when the pain seeps in. Your bones all ache, the familiar and unpleasant sensation of growing pains, it feels like your tongue is coated in a thin layer of ash and grit and your throat is sore and raw. Your left arm feels numb, like it's balance is wrong, you begin to wonder if it's somehow broken when you look down and see that the flesh itself is fused with the gauntlet. The clockwork and structures of the metallic glove have seemed to shrink to fit you skin-tight, bone deep. You flex your mechanical fingers and as you press your right hand into the left, you can feel cold metal under your finger and soft fingertips against your new palm. Your head is reeling as you're trying to make sense of where you are and what's happening, the blood rushing against your temples and the back of your eyes matches the pattern that is unmistakable to you. Your pulse, even in a rush, is in time as always to the watch in your breast pocket, you look up and you see Hunt standing over you.

Hunt: Speechless.

Nathaniel: I think Nathaniel tries to talk, but he's not quite all here. He just kind of mumbles incoherently. It sounds almost like a question.

Hunt: "Oh my god!" For a moment, it looks like Hunt has no idea what the fuck to do, she's like wants to go and check him out to see if he's actually there and...

DM: You can see too that his left sleeve has kind of been burned away, his arm is exposed and the one that he's looking at and it's like I described, the gauntlet has fused with his physical form and where the metal would normally end, it's not like a gauntlet on top of his hand that now he can't take off, it is his hand and where it fades into the skin it's like the soft edges of an old tattoo, like it is a natural part of him.

Nathaniel: What happened after... What happened?

Hunt: You've were gone for four days.

Nathaniel: It's been four days?!

Hunt: "Yes. How..." I get Nathaniel to scoot away from the bag, I put the Bag of Holding back in the chest and close it.

DM: Yeah.