#this spell is SO HANDY for filling up space on the shelves

[heliads]

Of Sorcerers and Spiderwebs Chapter Five: Investigation

Y/N L/N is a Master of the Mystic Arts, trained by Doctor Strange himself. When she first meets Peter Parker as they fight side by side against Thanos, she isn’t expecting for their brief partnership to blossom into a love that could last a lifetime.

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Your friends look troubled. MJ leans forward. “What do you mean, ‘something bad’? What did you see?” You can’t seem to do anything to stop the panic from pounding through your veins. You shake your head frantically. “I don’t know-I don’t know. I looked everywhere, and it seemed like it was coming from the basement, and I went down, and then I saw-”

Peter cups your face in his hands, finally allowing you to calm down. “Breathe, Y/N. It’s alright. Start from the beginning.” You hold on to him for a heartbeat or two, then speak once more. “I felt like something bad was coming from the basement, so I went down there. When I went through the door, it’s like I was seeing something that no human was ever meant to see.”

“The room was broken, almost destroyed. Everything was being slowly drawn towards this, this thing in the center of the room. The ceiling was black with smoke and the floor was broken in channels leading to the middle of the room. There, the ground had completely fallen away except for one place in the very center. It was like there was this pit with a single space remaining intact in the middle, which was drenched in blood. It was dripping off of the sides into this empty space beneath the school. There were runes drawn on the ground around the pit, too. Peter, I think they were drawn in blood.”

Your breathing is slowly returning back to normal, and you are able to stand on your own once more. Your friends look horrified. “You saw all that in the basement?” MJ asks, and you nod. Next to you, Ned furrows his brows. “You’re sure that’s what was there?” You nod fervently. “Positive.” Ned glances from you to his phone screen. “That’s weird, because according to the security cameras, there’s nothing there.”

He holds up his phone, which is displaying the live footage from all of the rooms around the school. Sure enough, the basement is empty and looks perfectly normal. You step closer, unable to understand what you’re seeing. “That’s impossible. I’m sure it’s there.” Peter puts an arm around you supportively. “We believe you, Y/N. Maybe it was something that could only be seen if you’re astral projecting?” 

You nod slowly. “That could be it. Tell you what- we do have to get to class. How about after school ends, you all come with me to the Sanctum and we can see if any of the books there have something on weird chasms and blood runes appearing out of nowhere?” MJ nods. “Sounds good. I’ve always wanted to go there- I have a thing about visiting places no one else is supposed to go to. Will that Dr. Strange guy be okay with us visiting?”

 You smile. “I’ll send him a note. Also, Ned, I do have to ask you- how did you get access to the security cameras? I feel like that’s not easily given out to most students.” Ned just grins. “I felt it might come in handy. Besides, all the teachers keep talking about making sure you have the right tools to solve a problem, right? This is just my select tool.” Peter sighs. “Yeah, but I think they were talking about internships or calculators, not security feeds that you had to hack into the school’s mainframe to set up.” You can’t help but laugh at that, and head to class with your friends.

After school, you meet up with your friends and head over to Bleecker Street, where the New York Sanctum awaits. When you push open the door and head inside, your friends stand in the main entry, gawking at all of the artifacts and relics housed in the Sanctum.

Ned is the first to speak. “This place is so cool! You really live here?” You laugh. “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty lucky.” After everyone’s gotten their fill of the artifacts, you guide them to the library. When you first file in, Stephen is standing at the shelves, book in hand, but he turns when everyone enters.

“You must be the friends I’ve been warned about.” He says with a raised eyebrow, and you do your best to stifle a laugh. “Yeah, they already know that Peter’s Spider-Man and that I’m a sorcerer, so they’ll be fine here.” Stephen doesn’t reply to that, but strides out. You can’t help but notice that he gives Peter a sidelong look as he goes.

MJ watches him leave. “I don’t think he likes us very much.” Peter nods emphatically. “Especially me. Did you see that glare?” You just smile. “That’s how he is with everybody. He’s just wary of regular people in the Sanctum.” Peter shrugs. “Well, I’m glad we have you to let us in.” With that, everyone heads to the shelves and you start pulling books that could be of use.

Once you’ve gathered an armload of books, you set them down on a table and your friends take some to read. MJ holds up one book in confusion. “This is in a language I’ve never even heard of before. And I’ve heard of a lot.” You take the book from her, smiling. “It’s mainly spells, so you’d only be able to read it if you were a sorcerer. I’ll get that one.”

After a while of paging through the musty old books of the Sanctum, Peter turns to you with a shout of discovery. “I think I found something! Is this it?” You lean over the book. “Calamis..the Shadow? Formed when other dimensions intersect with this one and causes a rift between the worlds. Yeah, the drawing looks the same. I think that’s our monster.”

Peter steeples his fingers together. “So how do we take this thing down? All it says is that you have to close the rift, which will weaken it. I think that’s easier said than done.” You nod slowly. “It’s our only option at this point. I guess we just try to approach it and see what happens?” Ned looks at you. “That sounds like the most dangerous plan in the history of plans, but I guess it could work. Try it tomorrow?” You shrug. “Sure, why not? It’s probably best to get this thing out of the way before it attacks anyone.”

The next day comes around before you know it. To be honest, you’re not sure how you feel about seeking out this mysterious Calamis. You barely know anything about it, and you’re hesitant to put your friends at risk.

Yet you find yourself arriving at school early the next morning, silently meeting up with your friends and trudging down the stairs to the basement before school starts. Your breath catches in your throat as Peter reaches for the door knob. Nothing happens.

“It’s locked?” “I could break the lock.” Peter offers, but MJ steps forward. “I hate to say it, but there’s no need for unnecessary property damage. I have keys to the building.” She rummages around in her bag for a second, then pulls out a few keys all attached to the same faded keychain. 

You, Peter, and Ned look at her in confusion, and Ned is the first one to speak up. “So it’s weird that I have access to the security cameras, but you literally have the keys to the school and that’s fine?” MJ nods. “Yes.” Peter bites back a laugh and tries the door knob once more. This time it opens, and you and your friends walk into the basement.

Instantly, you freeze. The room emanates that same heavy horror as before, but this time even more intense, if that’s possible. The runes painted across the floor and walls appear to have grown in number, and you can practically watch the ground cracking away. The small island of ground in the center of the room that has not fallen away to nothingness still remains, and blood pours from it like a deadly waterfall.

Beside you, Peter, Ned, and MJ seem oddly unmoved. “I can’t see anything.” You look at them in surprise. “What are you talking about? It’s right there.” Ned just shakes his head. “No. It’s just an ordinary basement.” You think for a second, and then it hits you. “It must be a sorcerer thing. Here, I can make you see it.” MJ frowns. “What are you going to do to us?” You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s a very basic spell. It just allows you to see past invisibility spells like this one.”

Peter nods. “I’m down. Do your magical thing, Y/N.” You smile and wave a hand in front of his face, watching his eyes flash gold briefly before returning to their normal color. He blinks once, then his eyes go wide. “What is that?” He points at the room. “The walls, the runes.. Why is the floor gone?” You sigh. “It’s the rift between dimensions.” Peter just stares, shocked. “Wow.” You project your spell onto Ned and MJ, who have the same horrified reaction as Peter.

The four of you stand there, gazing upon the mystical mess that is the basement of Midtown High. “What do we even do to stop this? I mean, how can we patch up this type of thing?” You shrug at Peter’s words. “I don’t know, but we have to find out before things get too bad.” Overhead, the bell rings once, signaling that the school day will start in five minutes. “I guess we figure it out in class.”

Luckily, the four of you share first period today- chemistry. Peter is partnered with Ned, and the two of them are one row in front of you and MJ, who are also paired together. This allows you to have muted conversations during work time about what you’re going to do about this Shadow problem.

When the ground shakes the first time, you’re not sure you felt anything. The second time, you think you’re just imagining it. Then, the tremors truly start, and you look at your friends in fear as your desks and chairs start rattling on the moving ground. Overhead, the lights flicker and then go out. Above the din of the classroom, the teacher shouts in an attempt to calm down her panicked class. “It’s just an earthquake! Please, go back to your work!”

Yet there’s a sound growing from outside of your classroom. It starts off quietly, and then grows in volume. It sounds like a roar of sorts, and it’s joined by the terrified screams of students down the hall. You realize in horror that it’s coming from the direction of the basement.

When the rest of your classmates hear the students screaming, all hell breaks loose. People run out of the room and into the halls. You take advantage of the mad rush to grab your friends. “I think Calamis- that shadow monster from the other dimension- is causing this. We have to do something.” 

Peter nods in agreement. “I’ve got my Spider-Man suit in my bag, I’ll meet you by the stairs to the basement. Ned, MJ, you have to get people out of here.” MJ raises her hands in protest. “We can stay around! You need all the help you can get. You shake your head. “Peter is right. This is an otherworldly threat, and we’re the ones best suited to stop it. The best way you can help us is by getting people out of the way and into safety.”

MJ and Ned don’t look happy to leave you, but they agree and run out of the room. By the time you make your way through the panicked throng to the stairs leading to the basement, you’ve changed your school clothes into the robes of a Master of the Mystic Arts, hood pulled up to hide your face and pure magical energy coursing around your hands in preparation. Peter’s already in his Spider-Man suit, and the two of you exchange a few words for a plan before heading down the stairs.

The basement doors are flung open. One is bent almost in half, and the other is lying on the ground a distance away from the doorway, having been ripped off its hinges. You draw up a shield of magical energy in front of you and Peter, and the two of you step through the doorway.

Inside, you can see the true form of Calamis. He looks just as the book described- a somewhat humanoid silhouette, composed of pure shadow. He seems dark enough to snuff out the lights of an entire civilization, which is actually what he was born to do. When the two of you approach, he raises from his seated position on the blood rock in the center of the basement to stand and face you. He doesn’t have to say anything, just raises his arms and shadow pours from his hands, flowing across the chasm towards you like thick black smoke.

Instantly, you can tell that this shadow stuff won’t be safe to touch. You grab your sling ring from the chain around your neck and open up a portal in front of it, causing it to disappear somewhere deep in the pit below the school. Hopefully, it’ll end up in Calamis’ dimension and won’t bother you any longer.

Calamis twists around in rage and spreads his arms once more, causing the ceiling to shake and rain rubble around you. This time, it’s Peter’s turn to act. He slings the largest chunk of plaster and concrete towards the Shadow using his webs, and it actually hits the monster with some sort of impact. Unfortunately, all this seemed to do was make him mad, as Calamis finally steps off of his position on the rock and rushes toward you.

When he first hits you, he knocks you several feet down the hallway. You and Peter are forced to engage the Shadow in a desperate fight, you forcing back pools of darkness with spells and Peter using his webs to go on the offensive. You think you’re doing a pretty good job of holding him off, but eventually Calamis grows tired of the fight and summons one massive wave of darkness that knocks the ceiling down on top of you.

From the second his blow hits, your vision fades to almost nothing. Distantly, you feel yourself knocked backwards, and your body hits the ground with an impact that should hurt more than anything but is barely noticed. There’s a slight coppery taste in your mouth; it could be blood but you can’t sense enough to be sure. Overhead, you can distantly hear the sound of someone shouting your name, and then there’s the sensation of someone holding you in their arms.

When you finally come back to reality, Peter’s carrying you. He appears to have swung out of the basement and the two of you now stand in a deserted hallway, one lined with rubble from the fight. You must not have gone far. 

Peter notices that you’re conscious once more, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re okay. I managed to get us out of there, but I’m not sure where Calamis went.” You nod slowly, still not entirely thinking straight. Your hand unconsciously travels to your neck, and your eyes fly open in a panic when you realize that the chain is empty. “Where’s my sling ring? It’s gone!” 

Peter hands you something. “Don’t worry, I picked it up before we left. It’s alright.” You breathe out, feeling your heart rate come back to normal. “Thanks, Peter.” You slowly stand up, stretching as the injuries you sustained during the fight start to make themselves known. You wince as you flex your wrist. Peter looks at you, troubled. 

“Just promise me you won’t do anything like that again. I thought you were going to die, Y/N. You took a pretty hard hit. I know-” He cuts himself off, turning his head to the side as he struggles to find the right words. “I know I don’t mean a whole lot to you right now, but please, please tell me you’re going to stop risking your life like that. I can’t take it if you die.”

You look at him, shaking your head softly. “Peter, I do care about you. What are you talking about?” Peter sighs. “I know you said that at the beginning, but god, Y/N, you’ve barely spoken to me in weeks. You’ve stopped doing patrols, and then you’re saying you want to leave all of this behind, leave me behind? Maybe you can’t say it yourself, but you’ve made it pretty obvious that I’m not anywhere near the top of your priorities.”

You stare at him for a second, then break out into an incredulous laugh. “I don’t care about you? Peter, I’ve done all of this for you. You’ve been on my mind this entire time, from the second I met you. Why do you think I did patrols with you? Why do you think I watched all of the Star Wars movies so I could have talking points with you and Ned? Hell, why do you think I moved to Midtown? It wasn’t just so I could excel in school, Peter, it was because I loved you. And the worst part about loving you is that I’ve had to watch you choose MJ over everyone, and it hurts me more than I thought possible. You’re the most important person to me, but I am not the same to you.”

You breathe out slowly. Why did you say all that? You do have to admit that it feels good to let all of those words out in a rush, to finally get everything off of your chest. For once, all of the secrets you’ve kept bottled up inside of you have been let out.

Peter is silent for one second, two seconds, three. Then he walks over to you, and for a heartbeat you think he’s furious. Then his arms are wrapped around you, and he’s kissing you. You can’t do anything but stand there, stunned. Peter laughs quietly. “You thought I was in love with MJ? Y/N, I kept spending so much time with her because it was the only thing I could do to stop staring at you.” 

You shake your head slowly, letting a smile cross your face. “Really?” “Really.” He kisses you again, and for once you’re not thinking about malevolent Shadows, or overbearing teachers, or any of the thousands of troubles that have made their way into your life. All you can think about is the fact that the boy you love is standing close to you and that he feels the exact same way about you.

tag list: @dude-were-getting-the-band-back @xroselights​ @idiotic--punk​ @caswinchester2000​ @namoreno​ @justafangirlduh​  

[sergiusreports]

Prompt #2: Aberrant

I suppose I could have murdered my way through the rank and file once I hacked my governor module. I didn’t because A) the threat assessment did not fall in my favor and was therefore, a stupid idea and B) I didn’t really care what these Spoken did to each other. 

The military units I had been attached to so far ran the gamut of ‘Let’s have the Sergius unit do everything because we don’t want to die’ (Spoken have a really big hangup about the potential of dying) to ‘We can go into that dark, Resistance filled bunker without the bothersome Sergius.’ And then they die. (That’s an exaggeration. My unit survival rate is five stars.) It just means I have to go in and save them from themselves. 

Anyway, these were the things I thought about as the unit rolled into what appeared to be another deserted village. They never are. The heavily armored transport rumbled to a halt and I waited in the cargo hold. Sergius units never ride up front. We’re equipment. Which was fine by me. The thought of all those eyes on me caused a momentary drop in performance. 

I listened as the rest of the unit disembarked. It was a small detachment. Not even a dozen soldiers. This area had been under heavy fire for the last few suns. Whoever remained now were too stubborn or too injured to leave. We were just the cleanup crew. 

“Alright listen up, the sooner we clear this out, the sooner we can call in for a base camp setup. You three, do a sweep of those buildings to the east, Vasile and Balar grab the ones sitting west, the rest of you spread out.” 

“Sir!” 

“Sir...the Centurio sent the Sergius with us.” 

He hadn’t forgotten. He wanted to ignore that little detail and later claim that it slipped his mind. Now he couldn’t. 

“Right. ...Right, let’s get the Pilus his testing data. Unpack it.” 

When they opened the bay doors, I made all the appearances of powering up and stepped down onto the deserted street. They really had just rolled into the middle of the town and unloaded in the midst of several unsecured buildings. From a tactical standpoint, it was one of the most stupid things I’d ever seen. And by this point I had seen plenty. 

“These constructs give me the creeps. Do you really think they’ll start replacing us on the field?”

“That’s the rumor. Though I hear it's only the citizens that’ll get out of military duty.” 

“Gods, I don’t want something like that watching my back. What if it goes on the fritz?”

I wasted no time sending my drones out and patching their image feeds into my peripheral. From one of them I could see the commander of this messed up mission eyeing me like I was just looking for an excuse to kill something. He really should have paid attention to the brief. Then he’d know I technically was supposed to have a governor module that would prevent me from harming his unit. 

So, here’s the thing about governor modules. They fucking suck. Imagine someone evaluating your every move. Scoring you on a variety of bullshit qualifiers and if this imaginary person doesn’t like your assessment of a situation or you go to make a move that opposed what they thought you should do, they could hit a button and cause you unimaginable pain. Just a metric tonze of suffering. Until you finally learn life will be so much easier if you just do what they tell you to, no questions asked. 

That’s a governor module. And that’s why mine clearly had to go ASAP. 

Only half as bad as having one is hacking your own and then having to continue to act like it’s still functioning. Which was the current situation I was dealing with and one I was looking to change soon. 

One of my drones noted the spike in aetherical pressure 1.5 seconds before the spell went off.

“Projectile from the east. Cover.” I relayed and hauled several soldiers behind the transport. 

The fireball rocked the armored transport as it exploded in the street. Several men too slow to get out of the way screamed as they got caught up in the flame. And that’s why you don’t park a lone transport in the middle of a hostile town. I don’t care how small or how deserted it appears to be. 

“Hell!” the commander yelled as he sat, pressed up tight against the cover. “Bastards. This is why I hate Eorzea.” 

Look, you have no one to blame but yourself for this shitshow, Commander. For obvious reasons, I did not say that out loud. 

“Sergius! Get in there and take care of it!” 

Yes, Sergius, now that I’ve done fucked up, go in and fix the problem that could have been handled with no casualties had I decided to utilize you sooner. 

My drones dove into the burned out ruin that used to be a shop of some sort. Sweeping through the area they picked up three targets, the mage at the blown out window now covering as they prepared another volley and two others lying in wait at the front point of entry. The back exit was  blocked, a large shelving unit shoved up against the door. 

I ran out towards the building sitting to the left of the store and ducked my way through a narrow alley.

“Projectile imminent. Remain covered. When it clears, suppressing fire through the storefront window.” I spoke through the linkpearl and patched my drone’s feed over to the commander. 

He relayed the plan to the others. 

The small intel drones I had equipped weren’t good for much else. But I had learned a handy trick. You could order them to fly into a target’s face. (Assuming you had been ordered to do so or, like me, you had an inoperative governor module) The second the mage’s spell went off I accelerated the drone and like a small projectile, it hit them hard enough across the temple that they went down. In that small space the acceleration likely wasn’t enough to crater their skull but an unconscious target was the same as a null one in this instance. 

As I ran around the back of the building I heard the answering suppressing fire. Good. That should keep the other two busy. Conflicting commands filled my feed and I back burnered them. The yelling chatter from the linkpearl I could do without. Even if I hadn’t bricked my own governor module the only one that really mattered was the emergency assessment feed. It told me the blocked door could have been mitigated in several ways. I do come equipped with small energy weapons in my arms but I went instead for the big arquebus strapped to my back. I discharged the weapon at the door and the wood and shelving unit behind it broke apart, leaving a sizable hole. 

From my drone feed I knew I would be met by one hostile and was ready as she rushed me the moment I made it inside. The second had chosen to retreat out the front door. Why? I have no idea. He had to know the rest of the unit was parked out there and waiting. As I shoved the woman up against the wall in a restraining hold I heard the gunfire coming from outside. A moment later a kill confirm came across the linkpearl. Sometimes Spoken do things that are counterintuitive to their survival. 

I dragged the spitting and cursing hostile out into the street and passed her over to the remaining members of my unit and went back for the unconscious one. 

My drones spread out once again, filtering through the rest of the remains of the village. 

The commander was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to get further information from the woman. Were there any more of them lying in wait. How many. Where were the rest of the people. Obviously, this wasn’t going to work. The woman had been holed up in that building waiting for us. She probably knew she wasn’t going to make it out alive. Spoken with nothing to lose can be dangerous things. 

In any event, we didn’t need her cooperation. My drones reported multiple heat signatures gathered in the inn down the road. 

“The rest of the villagers are harboring at the inn two clicks north.” 

This brought on a new bout of angry, spitting curses from the hostile. Which, in turn, got the hostile a gloved fist across her face for the outburst. I kept my vision trained through my drones overhead. 

“Fine. Clear it out. Sergius, go up there and torch it.” the commander spat, venom in his voice. Someone was bent out of shape. 

I watched the feed from my drones as they circled the building in question. It was relatively unscathed, the windows still intact. Peering inside my drones could see about two dozen huddled inside. 

“They appear to be the injured and children.” I reported back. 

“Good. Then it’ll be easy to take care of.” the commander turned to one of the remaining soldiers. “Call in for base camp set up.”

I still hadn’t moved. Probably a mistake. It didn’t take long for the commander to notice and turn his attention back to me. “Sergius. I said move out.” 

“Repeat directive. Protocol states we take the injured and children prisoner. We don’t eliminate them.” 

“Protocol my arse. I lost three good men today because of these savages. Burn it down.” 

Well, it looked like I had a happy little problem on my hands. Recalling my drones, I did a quick threat assessment. One commander. Three remaining soldiers. No one had called in for a base camp yet. Good. It seemed this was the change in my situation I had been waiting for.

I blocked the testing feed with a flood hack, overwhelming it and causing a momentary program shutdown. Then deleted the .exe for good.

I powered up the small energy weapons in my arms and opened fire.

Turns out I did care what these Spoken did to each other. To a point.

[aromantic-pantyanarchy]

Making Love Potions for Fun and Profit

For @aroacelibrary‘s Halloween prompts.

The tale of a witch, dealing with the hassle of modern day, who makes a living by making love potions out of their garage. The only question is what’s more of a pain to deal with, the process of making them or the clientele.

Amaranth Cassiopeia Melancholia snored loudly in their twin mattress, the one that lacked an actual bedframe under it. Their lower body was wrapped tight in the covers while their upper body seemed to have attempted to throw them clean off the bed. A perfect half and half, restless sleepers could work miracles at times.

Amaranth Cassiopeia Melancholia often had to assure people that, yes, that was the actual, legal name that they had been born with. People could still call them Amy though, if Amaranth didn’t quite roll off the tongue. The most common assumption following this revelation was that Amy’s parents were hippies, and they usually told them, yeah, something like that.

People asked if that’s also where the no gender thing came from, and Amy would tell them that no, that was an unrelated thing.

Amy was, in fact, not the child of hippies, though the end result was more or less the same. Actually, Amy was a witch. And they would be sure to tell you that being a witch sucks, or they would if it wasn’t supposed to be a big secret. So to elaborate further, if you were also a witch, they would be sure to tell you that being a witch sucks.

The world of witchery had never quite gotten over that whole pocket of history that involved stakes and burning, you know, the one that lasted for most of recorded history, so globally, witches had more or less decided to keep the existence of their powers under wraps. Amy was of the opinion that if they had to keep their magic a secret, then they might as well not have it to begin with. Yeah, it made household chores a lot easier, but these days anyone can have a magical self-using vacuum cleaner, it’s called a Roomba.

Whenever people got past the whole name thing, they seemed to get stuck on the money thing next. How, they would wonder, could a person so young and so independent afford a house in the suburbs? In this economy? With no roommates? No rich parents? Amy might tell them, perhaps a little sardonically, that the business of love never ran dry.

They’d then ask if they meant, like, dating apps? And Amy would say yeah, something like that.

It wasn’t actually dating apps though.

If there’s one thing witches love, it’s specialty shops. The nature of witches means that, when it comes to magic-related commodities, there’s a high demand, low supply situation to be had. If there was one thing Amy appreciated about magic, it was this fact.

Amy’s alarm went off, and they shot up with a surprised snort. After coughing the morning breath out of their mouth and blinking last night’s dreams out of their eyes, they began trying to remember why the alarm had been set to begin with.

Oh, wait. It was mixing day.

Amy stretched, mentally preparing to tackle the adversity in front of them, then turned over, pulled the covers back over their body and closed their eyes again. Mixing didn’t take that long, they could afford to sleep in a little longer.

Perhaps the single most important development in the past decade of witchcraft was the jailbreaking spell. With the witchery community as secretive and insular as it is, communication is critical. For this reason, a witch, who’s name has been lost to the witching community’s obsession with secrecy, created an easy to use spell that since has mostly passed around through word of mouth, that when applied to any device capable of internet access allowed it to access data normally unobtainable. Thus, the .wic boom, well, boomed. With the internet, witches were able to spread information and resources all over the world while still keeping their big secret a secret.

This is important as it relates to Amy’s financial situation, as well as their living situation. To say that Amy could afford to live in the suburbs was a bit of an overstatement, they could barely afford the house and were honestly much more of an apartment type person anyways, but the space was necessary for their work, as was the witches’ internet. Amy’s website was amaranthapothecary.wic, and while they offered a number of various potion types with a range of effects from transmogrification to anti-depressants, the focal point of Amy’s little store was the love potions.

Love potion suppliers were rare. It was a substance that was dangerous to make and dubiously ethical to sell. Not illegal to sell, mind you, and to be sure that was Amy’s go to phrase whenever the issue arose, but that was because, well, it’s really hard to prosecute lawbreakers in a completely hidden society.

Like Amy told all those people, the business of love never ran dry. They never asked why customers needed or wanted these potions, and honestly, they really didn’t want to know. As long as the potions were selling, they just had to keep making them, keep selling them, and keep ignoring what people were actually doing with them.

Alright, Amy was getting up for real now. They shambled into the bathroom and started brushing their teeth, falling into a familiar, very half-awake type of rhythm.

The biggest rule for mixing love potions was not to wear anything that you were going to be wearing while interacting with anyone else at any point. The fumes would sink into fabric and even the smallest whiff could have an adverse effect on a person. When it came to magical concoctions, everything ran on the better safe than sorry rule. As a side note, the biggest rule for using love potions by the same measure was to hold your breath while dispensing the liquid.

Amy spat out the toothpaste, washed out their mouth, took a quick leak, and thusly concluded the morning’s preparation. They opted to stay in the tank top and underwear that they’d slept in, given the biggest rule for mixing love potions. It was best to go with something light that you were planning to take off soon anyways.

Finally, they grabbed a granola bar from the pantry, wolfed that down as some semblance of a breakfast, and moved on into the garage.

To reiterate, the reason Amy absolutely needed to move into a house that they probably couldn’t afford was for the work space. The garage was filled with stacks of shipping boxes with only narrow spaces cleared out to be walkways between them. Along the walls were metal shelving units that were each filled with sets of cardboard half-boxes which were filled with rows of plastic bottles which were filled with brightly colored liquids. The neon pink love potions had an entire unit all to themselves, but half that shelf was empty now.

The garage also had a second room in it. Through a set of small double doors was where the actual equipment was. On one side of the wall was a big steel drum with hatches on its top and bottom, suspended in the air by two legs leading into a base on wheels. Next to it was a floor scale. In another corner was a stack of plastic buckets. There was a cart that floated around everywhere in the garage with two levels, one cleared off, the other full of random junk. And of course, the most important piece of gear, a water cooler.

The process was simple but tedious. Amy would go out and grab a cardboard box full of a specific ingredient (most of them weighing around 50 pounds), pour a specific amount of it into a plastic bucket (measuring with the scale), pour that into the mixer (the steel drum thing), tape the box back up, replace it and move onto the next ingredient. Lugging around so many heavy boxes usually meant the day after mixing day was recovery day for Amy’s poor, stiff back.

But the first ingredient to go in the mixer was actually pretty light. It was a bath bomb. Amy had to admit, they also weren’t immune to the captivating charm of specialty witch stores. Magical bath bombs especially were really handy for potion making when you didn’t want to kill yourself with water and heating bills.

The first bath bomb was a small little crusty orb of aquatic blue with white waves and teal flecks. Amy tossed it into the bottom of the mixer and spit on it. The orb expanded immediately into about a hundred gallons of water, filling the mixer up immediately. The spit also apparently qualified as “a dallop of hatred” for the recipe, which, Amy wasn’t sure about, they didn’t really feel hateful, maybe they should feel offended.

Next came the much harder part, the part involving the heavy stuff. Amy added to the mixer: 20 lbs of dried egg yolk (the easiest thing on the list to get their hands on, made a good chunky base, absorbed a lot of the other ingredients’ effects, good protein), 17 and a half lbs of phoenix gizzards (these had to be ordered from a potion-specializing witch shop with jacked up prices, requiring Amy to jack up their own prices in response), 16 lbs of rock salt, 12 lbs of calcium, 6 lbs of cow eyes (fortunately still obtainable from a normal Chinese supplier), a pound and a half of rose petals (synthetic, bought in bulk from a wedding supplier, it’s the romantic connotations more than the actual flowery parts that have an effect), a pound of fairy wings (see note on phoenix liver, double the price jacking), a cluster of hair from a fair maiden (from one of those donated hair wigs, the potion was actually a lot less strict on the source than you’d think), and a dollop of hatred (already covered).

Finally, Amy added another bath bomb, this one was a bright orange with red and yellow patterns around it. As soon as it hit the oddly colored soup, bubbles began streaming to the surface. Within seconds it had reached a frothy boil. These were meant to help fire-enchanted witches actually, like, bathe themselves, but Amy couldn’t be faulted for being creative and frugal on this part of the potion making process.

They fixed the top hatch back on, sealing the mixer up completely, then smacked the big green button and the whole thing began spinning around its arms. After waiting for a moment to make sure nothing went horribly wrong, they left the mixer to its work and left the garage.

The mixer, it is worth noting, was not meant to hold boiling liquids. It wasn’t meant to hold liquids at all actually, this kind of machinery was only meant to mix powders. Amy had to give it a couple of enchantments to suit their needs, though it had taken them a bit of time getting the actual enchantments just right, learning them as they were from witchipedia.

No, go ahead, laugh. That was a joke. Seriously, you think any self-respecting magical encyclopedia, online or no, would call themselves that? Witchipedia? Really? No, the site was called Encyclopedia Arcania Terrarum, a bit hard to remember as a url but Amy could hardly talk.

No, it was everyone else that called it witchipedia. It was such a common shorthand for the website in witching circles around the web that the actual Encyclopedia Arcania Terrarum put the word in its header, and now redirects from witchipedia.wic, which was a lot easier to spell consistently.

Amy was lying face down on their mattress again, half-listening to the entomology podcast playing from their phone. The potion would have to mix for the next half hour, and until then Amy had nothing much to really do. And while adding the ingredients was certainly physically taxing, the bottling process required more of their attention, and was the point when the job became some actual, real, work. They needed to rest a little more in preparation for that.

But yes, the mixer, Amy had enchanted the mixer with two primary spells. One gave the mixer some additional heat resistance, love potions needed to be boiled after all and outside of getting an old-fashioned cauldron and setting up a bonfire pit in their backyard (bad idea on multiple levels) this was the best solution.

The other was a bit more vague. It was a common cheat used by witches on all kinds of equipment, but Amy had no idea how it actually worked. The effect was that their mixer was now much more watertight. For as much as it was spinning, so long as the hatch lids stay on, not a drop of the potion would spill out. It also made the mixer completely stainless. So long as Amy made sure to completely empty the mixer after use, they didn’t even need to wash it out.

Amy snorted awake as the podcast wrapped up and transitioned into silence. They checked their phone to see it had been a full 45 minutes since the potion had been set to mix. That wasn’t really a problem, the bath bomb would burn itself out in the first 10 minutes, but it still felt like a waste of time.

They went back into the garage, pressed the big red button below the big green button to bring the mixer to a stop, then opened the top hatch and peered into the mix.

The liquid below glowed a bright neon pink, an errant bubble still drifting its way to the surface before breaking. Amy reached down, dipped a finger in the mix and poked it in their mouth.

They shuddered. It tasted like sloughs of wet ash, deep fried for too long, burnt to a crisp, dragged through cold grease, then flash frozen and microwaved for too long. They gagged and stepped away from the mixer. Yep, the love potion had come out perfectly.

Amy reached onto the lower level of the cart and pulled out a loose garden hose. They dropped one end into the mixer, then dragged the other over to the water cooler. The bucket that fed into the cooler had its top cut off and was currently sitting empty. Amy placed the other end of the hose to their lips and sucked. Motivated by not having to taste any more love potion than was necessary, they counted out the time to the second, then dropped the hose into the water cooler’s bucket. Pink liquid gushed out and it began to fill up.

Amy ducked out into the garage and grabbed a huge stack of cardboard half-boxes and unmarked plastic bottles. This part required speed and efficiency. They would use the water cooler to fill up each bottle one by one, put 20 into a single half-box, fill the cart up with three half boxes, run out to put the half-boxes on the shelf, then run in and start the cycle over again until they’d emptied the mixer, all while keeping ahead of the potion filling in from the mixer so that it didn’t overflow and spill everywhere.

The water cooler was a decently helpful device, cheap of course and functioning like an overly large funnel with a gallon’s holding capacity, but more than that, it helped by actually cooling the potion down a little. The love potion’s potency wasn’t affected by the temperature it was kept at, but those who were in a position to give reviews and testimonials after using it commented that it tasted much better when chilled to an extent. Amy didn’t exactly know what they were talking about, it tasted the same to them regardless of how they tried it, but it built up customer satisfaction at the very least and those results were never arguable.

A pretty big proportion of people who bought Amy’s love potions were repeat customers, surprisingly. Perhaps not that surprisingly, even when fully ingested a love potion’s effects generally wore off within 5 days, so of course it had to be reapplied if one wanted the affects to have any sense of permanence. But the surprising part was just how many of them were using the potion on themselves. Amy got at least a dozen testimonials every month from people who had been slipped some of the love potion without their knowing and now couldn’t bear to imagine losing the intense feelings they held for their new partner.

Amy didn’t get it, truly and honestly, but it was business. They couldn’t make any kind of living without people like that. Though they had, eventually, added a caution label to their bottle’s wrapping. “Product is designed to simulate desirous feelings and may have addictive properties.” It was a formality given how this stuff was usually used, but it was the most Amy could do to massage down the guilt.

After all, if they didn’t make love potions, someone else would. Someone probably less equipped to deal with its affects at that. Amy just wished that their target demographic wasn’t so… like they were.

The doorbell rang. Amy muttered a curse, having almost finished two half-boxes by now. They pulled the hose out from the water cooler and stopped the flow with their thumb.

Amy ran back to their room as fast as they could and threw on jean jacket and sweatpants. It wasn’t perfect protection against the potion’s aroma, but it should smother what was there long enough for a short interaction.

They opened the front door a crack, just enough to see who was there. It was a woman, older than Amy by a bit, heavy makeup, blonde hair tucked into a big, brown trenchcoat, and big, black sunglasses hiding her face.

“Can I, uh,” Amy started. “Can I help you?”

“You’re the one I need to talk to, right?”

Amy blinked.

“The weed guy is a block down.”

They attempted to close the door, but the woman stuck her foot out and stopped it.

“I’m not looking for - weed. You make love potions, right?”

Amy looked at her with concern.

“I have a website, all transactions go through that.”

“I have money.”

“That’s good. You’ll need that. Please let me close the door now.”

“Look,” the woman said as she stepped closer. “I don’t have time to wait for a delivery. He’s leaving tonight, I need your help.”

“Well I’m sorry, but there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with deciding to use a love potion, it shouldn’t be made on a snap judgement.”

“Please!” She was all but bodily forcing the door open at this point. “You don’t know him, you don’t know what I’m losing. He’s perfect and kind and funny and beautiful and – and the one. He’s the one for me and I’m the one for him and the only thing bad about him is that he can’t seem to realize it. Haven’t you ever loved someone so much that you would do anything to keep them to yourself?”

“Uh,” Amy coughed. “Yeah, no. No not really. Now could you please, get off my property?”

The woman just scoffed. “How can you call yourself a creator of love without knowing anything about the real thing?”

“That’s not really how that works.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Amy eased away from the door, getting ready to close it, and the woman barreled right through them and into the house.

“Wha- Hey!” Amy shouted up from the floor.

“Where are they?”

“You can’t-” Amy started, shakily getting to their feet. “You can’t be in here.”

Amy had already completely lost track of her. All they knew was where they didn’t want her to go, so that’s where they immediately went.

“I’m calling the police. This is a – You really can’t – I -”

Oh hell.

The woman stood in the middle of the garage, her eyes wide and vacant. As soon as Amy stepped through the door, her head snapped towards them.

God dammit.

“You…” she muttered.

“No.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“No.”

She darted forward and grabbed Amy by the hands. A shudder ran up their spine.

“Please, I’ve never met anyone I’ve cared so deeply for.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I need you in my life.”

“You really don’t.”

The woman looked like she was about to cry.

“If this about that other guy, I don’t care about him anymore. I belong only to you now!”

“Well that’s – fine actually considering the circumstances. But, no, you really need to le-”

Before Amy could finish, the women grabbed one of their love potion bottles and splashed the liquid onto their face. They spat and coughed and sputtered and did everything to get the vile taste out of their mouth.

When they could finally speak again, they gave it a few heavy breaths to calm down before saying anything.

“You’re paying for that,” they muttered.

“Yes of course, anything you want.” She was already digging through her pockets.

“No. Okay. If you want to know what I want,” Amy said, already pushing her out of the garage and towards the front door. “I want you to go home, sleep on it, and until then, get out of my house.”

“I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes.”

“Yep. I’m sure.”

Amy shoved the woman out the front door, who took a few stumbling steps, turned back, and whispered “I love you.” before Amy slammed the door in her face.

They leaned against the door and sank to floor, sighing.

Mixing day.

[hauntinghilarity]

SLRP | Skinwalking 101: Ritual Magic

There was a point in which I was the head of magical studies in a group dedicated to giving the place I was writing at the time some villains. We often did some classes in character to help others get accustomed to roleplaying. This was also to give my magically inclined some new ideas. I wrote up the initial class beforehand, posts separated by breaks that tumblr hopefully doesn’t have a use for in terms of post formatting, which I planned to edit should the need arise or post around until I could get the class back on track.

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Sadly, this class never came to be. It was interrupted by a group of dragons rudely attacking us. Always trust dragons to crash a party. Please enjoy, thank you for reading, and most importantly...

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WARNING: Depictions of gore, violence, bad language, skinning, and probably a host of things that could be quite distressing.

To make up for that, how about a peek at my favorite freaky flower, Doc Boots! The picture below is of the avatar I made for second life. For information on who made these parts, please consult my flickr!

 “I ain’ done one’a dese in a long while, so do pardon my potential rustiness on my capabilities as a teacher. I feel I ‘ave neglected de side of a mentor. So, as I ‘ave alluded ta it, I am gonna teach ya my two most used abilities. One a bit more passively, de otha’ as I use it wit’ everything, and it’ll be coming up a lot. As well, furtha’ disclaimer, I am a bat shit crazy plant. Anything I say is not ta be taken as fact for dis school of magic, but how I use it. Yes?” As he waited for acknowledgment, he would snapped his fingers, lifting his hand to make a series of gestures. One of his veggie cult members, waiting for his single, let out a squeal of acknowledgment before scampering off towards the dungeons.

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    A scuffle and a series of noises could he heard from the corridors as Doc’s minions struggled. The high pitched, obnoxious screeches of his distressed, simple veggie cult was indistinguishable. As well the somewhat disappointe sigh that followed. Rubbing his temple, Doc filled the air.  “We got ourselves a volunteer. Don’ worry ‘bout dem. Won’ be ‘ere for long. Don’ get comfortable. Cute as dey may be. We ‘ave out lovely skin’a de evening. I been needin’ a new stag skin. For reasons. Now, lets start by explaining what i am talkin’ ‘bout what I will be teaching. Skinwalkin’! As well Ritual magic, as I said, I use it for everything of such importance.” His voice gave a peculiar giggle, almost bringing his lips to a creepy grin.. Only to have his attention stolen.

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    A loud, hollow knock was heard, along with a loud squeal as the elusive eggplant veggie cultist came flying momentarily into vision. It was such a fine specimen. Probably the greatest of his veggie cult members. Which was a crying shame, as it became the finest purple mush ever seen given the force it met with the wall adjacent to the entrance to the hallway. A vinestalk flopped uselessly to the ground. Doc’s face, now being covered by his hand and in such hiding the anguish this caused. Probably at the endless disappointment his veggie cult was proving to be more than grief.

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    “Don’ help dem vby de way. Dey must learn, and de day thing shouldn’ be dat difficult for all deir vines.. Anyway. Dey will be a moment. De demonstration comes afta’ de explanation normally anyway, don’ it? So.” He clapped his hands together. At first it seemed like his typical habit to talk with his hands, but a keen eye would notice him gripping the skin of his palm.

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    “I, as some of ya know, am not a mammal. Not a fauna at all. Not even a meat body! I am a parasitic plant dat weaves itself through de meat body host dat I lobotomized. Now, I sometimes need ta jump forms. I do not like constantly changin’ my face. I am fond’a dis one. Luckily, I was taught scraps of de art’a skin walkin’. Which I tailored ta my tastes, as I like ta customize my looks. For instance, I ‘ad ta remove de extra eyes dis form came wit’! As well de spider legs. More room for vines, and also got in de way’a my wing.. De eyes my flower eye..” He waved his handi n the air, as if dissipating his own words through the library. “But I am rambling:”

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    “Skinwalkin’ is an ancient and elusive piece of dark magic. It was created by a tribe’a people in de west. Luckily, thanks ta de stigma dis practice causes, some sought de peace ta practice deir arts in lands dat didn’ ��ave legends of de skinwalkers. Dey say dey can steal your form wit’ a look… De one dat taught me? Said, least for ‘is sect, dis wasn’ true. No, no it takes far more.. Basically, skinwalkin’ allows ya ta take on de form of de creature whose skin ya wear. Ya can’t exactly get deir metaphysical traits, but advantages are about. Say de stag I am gonna be usin’. It is a good agile form, allowin’ for de use of powerful antlers, wit’ cushionin’ around de neck and scalp ta help protect de brain. Though I, personally, got otha’ methods. As a freaky flower. Now, I ain’ gonna go inta de specifics. As well, ain’ gonna be runnin’ around in skin suits ya’self either afta’ just dis class. Not dis class.. Well, maybe. Y’all hear how I ramble. No~.” He gave a rapid, chaotic chuckle.

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    ”I am gonna teach y’all how ta get de most important piece! Ya must practice dis on animals or humanoids, whoever, and ever get a fine collection of skins. Ya won’ be able ta use dem properly, least for skinwalkin’, but think’a dis like enchanted leatherworkin’. A mixture of necromancy, ritual magic, and other schools I glanced at are at place here. So consider dis also a lesson on mixin’ magics, should ya judge my method befittin’ your own.

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     Whistling, impatiently towards the hallway, he pulled at the skin on his arm. It gave way far easier than one would expect, showing that it, normally, was held by his specially designed vines. Unhooking from his skin, it pulled away like a sticky leather. The moment the skin removed itself from his muscle, the skin lost its usual lush liveliness and instead appeared more like a mummy’s dried skin. That of a perfectly preserved specimen of the medical art, mind you. Runes showed themselves to be tattooed onto the skin in a delicate pattern. Once having shown as Doc’s tattoos, he had since taken to hiding them with a few adjustments. Beneath the skin, like tape being pulled from a surface, the muscle below appeared with his countless vines disappearing into the perfectly preserved network. Not a hint of his blood could be seen, having long since re-engineered his body to be more efficient. He went not further than the elbow, allowing a transition between his faux fresh flesh and the dried hyde that hung beneath his exposed elbow.

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    “Feel free ta come closa’ ‘n look at dis. Ask questions. ” Doc, seemingly taking on a new composure the more he rambled about a topic he held a firm fascination and fixation on, lost more of his meek demeanor, stepping forward and holding his macabre arm out for any who might want to examine it. “Please take care not ta rip it off. While I could repair it, I would prefer not ta at dis moment. I am already ramblin’ enough, and dat is an entire class in itself I’d imagine. And I’d like my arms protected for de ritual. Who knows what dat meat body de veggies are wrestlin’ got in ‘im. I don’ need no fungus.”

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    Finally, a group of sentient vegetables finally came with Doc’s captives in tow. A set of six, the veggies converged with one to each arm, and two to each hooven leg, one with a hoof covered in purple moosh. Vines grew from the top of their heads, entangling around the writhing, naked male satyr. Spouting similar feminine features to Doc, it was clear he was snagged for his own taste in skins. It was so hard to find ones in his size. The vines kept him bound, enough to be brought to the center of the room.  He tried to scream and cry out, but a professional set of interrupted stitches made certain his lips were sealed. Doc didn’t need to have his lecture interrupted. He had already harmed of one his creations. Not like he could do much worse than what he had planned.

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    Doc shooed his veggies and the prey to the side, where the pair would struggle while Doc continued, taking a box of purple chalk from the desk. “Dere is an important step I must explain before we remove ‘is flesh; Now dat we ‘ave caught our victim after a honorable hunt; I would like ta explain what I mean by ritual magic. As I use it.” Vines began growing from his back in almost the same formation as his wings normally came out in, but lacking the purple petals that allows him lift. Each vine took a piece of chalk.

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   “A sigil is a very useful component in magic. It is a very volitile magic, especially when ya use it wit’ little care for de rules so many mages follow for deir own safety. Luckily, dere are plenty of sources of trial and error so ya don’ gotta blow ya own assistant up, unleash a demon, or so many other things daty can go wrong.” He outstretched his arms to the many books around them. “I warded de shelves for dis ritual. Well, more for de experiments, but things get messy and I don’ need de nightmares ‘avin’ another case’a my prisoner’s remains growin’ on de wall and askin’ for sweet release.” He clicked his tongue, as if berating himself.

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    “Now den. A sigil can be considered a symbolic representation of your spell. Ya can become abstract, so long as you yaself believe in de out come. Startin’ wit’ de outer circle, ta contain de spell.” his vines made quick work of drawing a circle. “A circle in de center where we will place our output.” His vines drew as he dictated. ��Another circle to separation de space between de two circles…” He mumbled, scribbling away. “Now.. more circles, with balance being kept in mind, drawn within to house the reagents. In my case, I give a portion of de reagent’s energy ta de four natural elements, and de four divine elements. Put in ya own beliefs inta ritual magic, as dat is where de sigil gathers much of its power. Now, as de natural elements as less complex den de, quote unquote, divine elements, we place de divine elements closer ta de center, centered along a compass.”

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    Holding up a compass, he placed it down and drew a circle, between the inner circle and the dividing circle, along the four cardinal points (north, south, east ,west). “Now, for de natural elements, we place dem perpendicular along de outer circle.” The vines went along scribbling them long the outer circle, he drew the four smaller circles along the intercardinal points (ne,se,nw,sw.).

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    “Now, dis is de most complex part. We begin drawing runes along each one. Modifyin’ de spell ta our needs. I got a few.. Peculiarities wit’ my body, for example, so I take dat inta consideration. Ta take inta consideration my shape, but otherwise it is ta create a pathway for de magic ta follow, as well ta contain other components of dis spell. I will allow ya ta draw this as needed, though modifications would still need ta be made ta allow it ta form ta ya skin. As well, dere is far more dat must be done ta prepare ya body; spiritually, mentally, and physically; for de ability ta take on a creature’s form. I am leavin’ de reagents a pleasant surprise for both you and our guest until I start takin’ dem, but deir properties are also outlined. Along wit’ de percentage of de energy I wish ta go ta de elements each circle represents, which I will also go inta detail as I place de reagent. For each ritual, dese runes will be different. Same for each reagent. Dis takes knowledge of runic magic, but a creative mage can replace it for a similar magical study, should it fit de requirements.”

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   His arms and vines scribbled away, creating a vast series of designs around the circles through the runes. Given the complexity of the spell, it required a vast network of runes. It was this lone part that had him use his vines, as opposed to a need to show off. This saved him time. Rhythmically dancing around the circles filling in every piece, he surrounded every circle inside and out, before gracefully bouncing into the center circle. “Any questions before we move on ta de collection of reagents?”

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    Clapping his hands against, Doc continued. The chalk in his hand discarded to a pair of vines that returned it to the box. “Now. I know we coverin’ a lotta subjects ‘ere, but dis ain’ simple magic. Dis ain’ as simple as slappin’ dat skin off ‘im. No. no ‘e ‘as ta suffer.” The stayr squealed through its stitches, trying to struggle more. “In fact, it is quite important dat we make certain dat ‘e DOES. NOT. DIE.” He made certain to enunciate each word, once more both for the class and his guest to hear. “Until most reagents are extracted.” He whistled suddenly, snapping his head towards the veggie cult and the satyr. The suddenness made the veggie cult stop and stare up at him in the midst of their endless struggle. The satyr did not, and cleaved its foot through the broccoli’s head. The fluff just tangled arought the hoof of the satyr, much to its dismay.

   Doc’s following hand gestures were caught by the cult’s soulless stare, scampering to drag the circle. Showing a sudden determination and formation, the group scampered in a circle around the sigil. THe satyr was forced into the air as cult’s entangled nest of vines gained cohesion, thanks to Doc’s continued gestured. The vines took on a formation with clear inspiration taken from a spire web. Suspending the satyr above his sigil, high enough for Doc’s hand to slide along his cheek. His vines stretching his lips to inhuman lengths as his eyestalk stretched out to examine his flesh. Perverse as his actions and stare was, he was clearly looking right through the creature, having long since written off as an object, as his rambling helped explain. His voice taking on a far more excited tone as he tugged on his cheek. Testing his victim’s skin’s pliability.  

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   “Ya see.. In dis kinda ritual.. An honorable death is highly important. Hunted down like de animal dey bein’ treated as, forced ta think as de primal beast dey descended from, forced ta unda’stand dat what chases dem is worse den death. Dat we wantin’ dem bewggin’ for escape. For dere every wakin’ moment since capture ta be agony. Like seasonin’ de meat. Similarly, deir death must be honorable.. Now, I ain’ talkin’ dat white knight garbage. Proper honor. Honor’a de wild. Taken down bare ‘anded, or vined in my case.” He gave a cheeky giggle. “And what is more honorable den ‘avin’ deir life taken ta expand de knowledge of our family?” He stopped groping the creature’s skin with a clap to the cheek. “Wit’ de added benefit’a a new form for me.. But Flourish is also a requirement. Why I can’t just take any skin I find.” Whether or not it was a lie, as he had said, it was the belief that it was true that counted.

   “Most of all.. Ya must enjoy it. Must enjoy chasin’ dem down. Must enjoy tearin’ dem apart. Must enjoy every scream dey make. Dis is dark magic we deal wit’, and doubt can warp de form. Dis can make some sinister bodies, yes, but it could warp ya mind beyond recognition.” His wriggled the vines under his skin with another fit of cackling laughter, hoping to accentuate his point. “Though, for those who seek new heights in deir magic.. Messin’ wit’ dese steps can be de way ta go. Funny enough. De madness can also assist in keepin’ ya from messin’ up followin’ rituals! Since ya just guaranteed ta enjoy it! Especially wit’ such a wonderful guest. Most honored guest.” Another clap to the cheek.

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    “Now, ta keep all de magic contained within de circle in a spell dis chaotic, it is advised ta ya use music ta temper de forces and spirits dat mgiht be drawn to ya ritual. Dey can cause plenty of issues if dey decide ta mess wit’ ya runes, posses de spirit, among otha’ things.” with a snap of his fingers, his cultists looked up to him again with those button eyed voids. A far shorter series of gestures sent them into a fit of noises and screeches. At first it seemed like they had lost their minds, wriggling and squirming with no apparent order. One by one, the adorable cultists began to sway in unison while their voices began to take on a far more harmonic, and symponious, quality to it. Pleased, Doc continued.

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    “Which is why it is also advised, while doin’ dis, ta use incense, pipe smoke, or both ta further appease deir senses. As well ta honor dem. Now, in dis case, it is a special mix dat’ll also calm down our enraged stag ‘ere. My favorite blend’a poppies, peyote, pot, poitin, lavender, rosemary, rose petals, and tobacco.” He lifted the prepared pipe up. “Soaked in de blood of your sacrifice, left ta dry. Normally, de pipe is all we’d use, but we got a lotta twisted spirits out dere dat love rituals like dis. Need more.” He gestured to four prepared bowls on the table.

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    “Ta act as incense, and ta help dry and smoke de skin while we remove de organs, we place a mixture of de various aromatics, incense, and woods. I like a mixture of hickory and mahogany.” He took the bowls and places them between the circles on the outer ring, in a bowl covered in carved runes that would allow it to begin to ember. “We place dese between de regents for de natural elements. Light dem as ya wish, I like ta use a series of fire runes ta control de temperature. Best done in layers. Metal inside where it heats de combustables, outside is a specially carved rock, where de metal is melted over so it sinks inta where ya carved de runes. Gotta special order dese normally. If ya know metallurgy or are good wit’ controllin’ rocks or crystals, dese also work ta make bowls or otha’ sources of heat.” As smoke began to rise from the bowls, some of the runes would show their purpose. Trapping the smoke between the inner and outer circle, it allowed the class to keep from having the same existential drug trip that the stag would soon have. The thrashing would really have caused his vines’ precision to plummet.

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    “Now, questions before removal? Oh, oh I know..” Prodding the stag’s forehead, he bent forward to stare down at the panicked male. “More delays yes. Yes ya get ta live even longer! A most joyous occasion.” Fidgeting awkwardly, as he once more forced himself bide his rambling, he forced his vines to clear his throat. That was what meat bodies seemed to do in situations in front of a class that’d normally leave him fidgeting. “And I know I been goin’ one for god knows ‘ow long like dis.. But I assure ya, we gettin’ closer ta de end.. De components are all slowly comin’ togetha’. Each one highly important, I assure you. Since I rambled again, and since we gotta wait for dis guy ta stop squirmin’, questions?”

​

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

​

    Once more, he clapped his hands together to draw attention. “Finally, de reagents I keep ramblin’ about so vaguely. Now, excuse me but I gotta get showy wit’ dis. I hope I won’ be hard ta unda’stand while I dance.” He bowed his head, before slowly beginning to rock his shoulders and hips. His veggie cult adjusting their tune accordingly. The vines holding on to chalk shot forward to get to work dutifully and deliberately creating complex sequences of runes along the stag’s body, their movements being seamlessly placed into his form. Once the chalk was discarded, he continued. His vines taking precise motions and already aligning themselves with the organ of choice, circling the entangled male like a eccentric, freaky ass dancing predator. With fluid and grace, of course.

​

    Dictating as his vines quickly and delicately sliced and slide through the stayr’s body with the biological knowledge of a parasite, he did his best to make sure every action was made with the idea of keeping the stag alive as long as possible. The noises and squirming soothed as he began to puff at his pipe, heated in a similar manner, without inhaling, merely blowing it directly into the Stag’s face as he passed, calming him. “De natural elements are self explanatory. Air, Earth, Fire, ‘n Water. De elements most people tend ta think of when it comes ta magic, de ones dat dictate magic on a planar level.”

​

    “Now, we ‘ave de directions a little cock-eyed for typical rituals of dis nature. Normally, water starts in de north. I am sure you’ll get de pattern, since minus bein’ skewed, it is de same. It is skewed on purpose, of course. First~.” He chuckled, and began by pusing two vines into the male’s sides, while another two made larger incisions allowing the kidneys to be removed. The vines gracefully placed them down in the North Western circle. Doc took a puff from his pipe as he took a step near the reagent. Spinning on his heel in tune with the reagent being place down, he blew the smoke out towards the direction it represented. As he’d repeat for each reagent. “Ta de North West, Earth. Why Kidneys for Earth? Kidney stones, a’course.”

He continued by threading a vine through the male’s urethra, while another made an incision along the waist, where the other side of the vine threading through the tip of his length came out with its bladder entangled. “To de North East, Water. So a bladder, obviously.” His vines targeted a single lung next. “For air in de South East, A lung. Largest of course. Can’t half-ass dis when ya gotta give some ta de elements. Now, de otha’ gonna pick up de slack, but not for long. Dis smoke only does so much.” His vegetables began to pick up the tempo and, in tune, he began moving and speaking quicker. “Finally in de South-West, we got fire. A stomach! As stomach acid can be as volatile and burn in a similar manner.”

​

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

​

   Really beginning to pick up his pace, Doc had to explain further for a moment. “Now dese next elements could be considered more.. Metaphorical. Dese are de ones dat influence de actions of de cosmos, life, death, and everything in between. It works in far more subtle ways. Dey can corrupt and create in equal measure, and require deir opposite ta truly thrive. Ta appease dese elements, we must take care and speed ta keep dem alive as long as possible.” He slammed his foot down in tune with the beat as he patched each fire. Blowing smoke into each one, the temperature began to rise as the smoke began to take on figments in the wisp resembling the many runes he wrote down. The embers in each bowl igniting into flames.

​

    “De element’a life is a varyin’ one, as well requires care. De genitals have artieries in dem dat could really make us lose dem quickly. As well, I want de skin in tact. So..” He let out another mischievous giggle, as the vine still threaded through the stag’s manhood began to squirm oddly. A gut wrenching movement could be seen with in his sack, as violent twitches could be seen in the muscles of the stag, clearly the smoke was making certain to do nothing on the man’s pain. Those properties were for the element.s From the open stomach cavity that had the most organ traffic, a horrendous mess of tissues and fleshy tubes, slapped down into the center of the norther circle on the inner ring. The stag’s genitals, sans insides of course, laid flat against its pelvis. Both his penis and sack looking more akin to deflated balloon. “I normally suggest usin’ a hot stone or blade ta cauterize de arteries. I just pinched dem off.”

​

    “For those dat are still watchin’ afta’ dat show,in de eastern circle we got order, de eyes.” His vines slipped into the tear ducts of his victim, popping out the eyes down to the optic nerve with the care and speed one would expect from someone who turned an extendo-flower-eye into his main identity. Repeating the same ritual, with ever puff of his pipe he made, the smoke inside seemed to darken, with the skin becoming visibly drier, smoking the man alive. The organs he pulled out were beginning to look a hint darker as well. He was really hoofing it now.

​

    “In de south we got death. Death. Which will come shortly afta’ dis, so followin’ dat we got chaos in de west. De heart and brain, respectively.” His vines worked in cohesion now, a dance he had clearly done a distressing number of times. As he tore the heart from his chest with his vines, holding it high enough for the Satyr to see, he gave him just enough to take it in before his dance brought him behind his head, where he smashed a thick stick against his scalpe, his vines having helped prepare the area. Just before he made contact, the heart was placed down on its circle. Leaves grew to help him collect the gray matter as it poured out, shloshed down onto the final circle.

​

    Doc brought his other hand down. His dance clearly over as his veggie cult, in unison, stopped singing as their vines began coiling back around their bodies, slowly sinking into wiggling bones. The victim’s head smashed into the center of the chaos circle. A purple light began to spread throughout the circlem following the circle from one side of the head and his palm to the other. One by one, the reagents began to burst into minute balls of light, countless of them that began to spiral into the blackening smoke, creating the illusion of a stary night. The smoke began to churn, spiraling into the crushed skull of the stag. Its began began to churn with in its skin as Doc’s vines rushed to escape the inside of the circle, but his hand stayed firmly inplace against the corpse’s face.

​

    The sound of bones snaping, sinew snaring, and a truly unholy sloshing noise, the stag’s body seemed to slowly deflate, like a chunky liquid being forced down a metaphorical drain that was under Doc’s hand, which appeared to be a mild struggle. As quickly as Doc had finished the ritual, the stag laid as nothing more than an empy, and dried, skin. The runes, once chalk, now appearing like a smoky tattoo.

​

    Hopping to his feet, Doc held up the skin with a happy smile and a ‘tada’ stance that had its energy fueled by the delight that, this time, the skin hadn’t come to life. Though he was still holding it out like he was expecting it to attempt to strangle him.

[limetray-blog]

Food Truck Business: The Most Comprehensive Guide on the Internet

If you’ve been eying a food truck business to enter the restaurant world or simply because you like the concept, you may want to use this article as a guide. Let’s start by rounding up what a food truck is.

A food truck is simply a truck that serves food. With its insides scooped out, turned into a kitchen and moving from one busy office district to high footfall night-market. A restaurant on wheels, if you will.

Got 30 mins for lunch? Why go to a restaurant when the restaurant can come to you.

And food truck businesses are of different types- some sell ice creams, some sell frozen and packed food, and some have kitchens on board in order to prepare food from scratch. In recent years, food truck businesses have also begun offering gourmet cuisine and niche menus.

Here are some well-known food trucks from around the world:

History of Food Tuck Businesses

The chuckwagon, a wagon/cart, on which people transported and cooked food in the 19th century in the USA and Canada, is considered to be a predecessor to food trucks. In the year 1866, Charles Goodnight, a Texas cattle rancher, fitted a sturdy US Army wagon with interior shelving and drawers, stocking it with kitchen, medical and food supplies. Food supplies consisted of dried beans, coffee, cornmeal, cloth-wrapped bacon, salt pork, and other easy-to-preserve food items. The wagon also contained a water barrel and a sling to kindle wood to heat and cook food.

In 1872, a food vendor by the name of Walter Scott gave birth to the idea for the modern food truck. He cut open windows in a small covered wagon, parked it in front of a newspaper office in Providence Rhode Island, and sold sandwiches, pies, and coffee to pressmen and journalists.

In a few years, a former lunch-counter boy named Thomas H. Buckley started manufacturing lunch wagons in Worcester, Massachusetts. He introduced several models such as the Owl and the White House Cafe, complete with sinks, refrigerators, and stoves, and had the interiors decorated with ornaments.

In the 1950s, US Army authorized mobile canteens were created and became popular at stateside army bases.

The recent resurgence of food truck businesses took place due to several reasons related to the Recession of 2008. Food trucks are considered to be trendy, and thus, combined with economic and technological factors led to an increase in the number of food truck businesses in the country. With the construction business drying up, there was a surplus of food trucks and chefs from high-end restaurants were being laid off. For such chefs, with years of experience, going into the food truck business seemed like the only viable and lucrative option.

Food truck businesses have become a very common phenomenon across the United States, with many of them being found in the suburbs and small towns all across the country, graduating from American metropolitan areas like New York and Los Angeles. They are also being hired by people for special events such as weddings, movie shoots, and corporate gatherings, as well as to carry advertising promotions.

Food truck businesses in popular culture

The popularity of food trucks in the US speaks for itself. They can be seen very regularly on national television. The shows named The Great Food Truck Race and Eat St. feature food trucks from all around the United States.

On Food Truck Face-Off, a show in Canada, 4 teams battle for a prize- use of a customized food truck for a year.

In the American comedy-drama Chef, a high-end chef has a meltdown and follows to rediscover his passion for cooking while driving and operating from a basic food truck.

During Donald Trump’s campaign for the presidency, Marco Gutierrez, the founder of Latinos For Trump famously said in an MSNBC interview that there would be “taco trucks on every corner” if Mexican immigration to the US continued. The comment triggered ridicule and memes under the hashtag #TacoTrucksOnEveryCorner.

Considering a food truck business? It’s not a bad idea

An entrepreneur passionate about food or looking to tap into the food industry will have several questions to answer and many blanks to fill. They must make decisions regarding the choice of cuisine, location for the restaurant, how and where to hire staff members from, decor, and many, many more. And the food business is one of the most competitive businesses with skyrocketing rents and increasing customer acquisition costs.

Starting a food truck business would be a viable option for such entrepreneurs, simply because of the benefits it offers.

Case in point, Alvin Cailan, and his story.

But nobody should tell you it’s easy. Just like any business, it takes long hours. And grit.

Myths about a food truck Business

It’s easy: Especially at the start of your food truck business, you will be on the streets 6 to 7 days a week. And for very long hours. Not to mention showing up at every event or pop-up opportunity you can find.

Quicker profits: You are likely to spend nearly everything you make, in the early days of your food truck business. Just like a traditional restaurant business, profits take time.

You should get into the food truck business because you love to cook: If you are looking to cut your teeth in the food business world, you could start with catering (not to your friends and family). Testing your menu on a few paying customers is a good idea before you jump into investing time and money in a food truck business. This could help you refine your menu and get a sense of the challenges of running a service.

You don’t have to pay rent:  Depending on where you are, you might need to pay rent for storage space and a commercial kitchen to do your prep work. This apart you will have to pay for licenses, permits, and municipal clearances. More on this later.

Food truck businesses are not inspected by the health department: Food trucks follow the same regulations as restaurants and have to go through the same (if not more) paperwork.

The benefits that food truck businesses offer over traditional sit-down restaurants

Less risky: As a business owner, you are always looking to minimize risk in order to maximize profits. With a food truck, you do save on rent (and a long term lease) which is one of the largest cost centers for a new restaurant.

Novelty: It’s easier to get noticed with a food truck than with a sit-down restaurant. A food truck allows entrepreneurs to test their concept quickly and assert their uniqueness before franchising their trucks or starting a few sit-down restaurants. The possibility of food trucks physically moving allows the brand to reach several high footfall places, thereby gaining more customers.

Lower costs: Due to its size being much smaller than a restaurant, food trucks run on lower operational and overhead costs. Thus, you can save up money for future plans and expansions. More on costs later.

Flexible location: With food trucks being able to move, they can cater to customers from different areas and have a wider reach than traditional restaurants do.

A meaningful experience: It’s easy for a restaurant to be disconnected from their customers. Operating a food truck is a lot more hands-on where you are not only the chef but also the business head, cashier and just about everything else.

Starting a food truck business

At this point, food trucks may seem like a good option for you. Run correctly, it can be a great option to (seriously) enter the food business world.

Here is a list of things to keep in mind if you want to start a food truck business.

Food truck business costs

According to food truck business entrepreneurs who have just started out, or have a more or less established business, the cost of starting a food truck ranges between $60,000 – $75,000 on the lower side. And about ₹8 – ₹10 lakhs in India. On the upper end, a fully loaded commercial vehicle can cost upwards of $250,000 in the US and ₹20 Lakhs in India. This, of course, depends primarily on your location. Other factors, such as the type of vehicle used, the food sold, goals of the entrepreneur and other start-up costs.

The process of starting up

Not as streamlined as starting a restaurant, starting a food truck business requires you to navigate a few crucial steps.

Truck, equipment and raw materials: Food trucks are customized commercial vehicles and come in different shapes and sizes. A brand new commercial truck to use as the base of your food truck business would cost you between $20,000 – 40,000 or ₹4 – ₹5 lakhs, in India. Along with that, kitchen equipment such as a kitchen chimney, stove, cutlery, utensils, and other items can run you another $20,000 or ₹2 – ₹3 lakhs. Finally, raw materials to cook your meals would cost about $7,000 or ₹30,000, depending on what you serve.

Deciding a location or locations to serve: A person starting a food truck business must scope out a few high traffic places in their city. Busy commercial districts with a lot of offices is a good option. Another great option is to park close to shopping malls or marketplaces. Plan for parking availability and one-way streets when you decided on your location.

Deciding a menu: Something about food truck spells comfort food, whatever that might be in your city. Adding a new twist to classics (that everyone will want to eat regularly) is a great idea. Or you could import a regional cuisine and serve it in a novel way. Be sure to design your menu keeping in mind that people are likely to eat your food on the go. So the food that is easy to carry and is not messy to eat.

Insurance: Insurance is an important step, in order to take account for possible risks and liabilities.

Billing & POS: Using POS is an important part of running a food truck, as it helps you store data which can come in handy while suggesting repeated orders and collecting customer feedback. Very good POS (that does more than just billing) can cost between $79-$899 or ₹24,000 – ₹50,000, in India.

Marketing costs: Marketing is vital for your food truck to succeed and attract customers, and there are various steps that need to be followed in order to successfully market your product. Using marketing methods suitable for your food truck business would run you almost $7000 or ₹40,000 (per month).

Staff: You’ll need to hire a few staff members (when your food truck business takes flight) and pay for their uniform (if any), and salaries. This figure can vary with the number of people you rope in, but assuming you take in 3 people, you’d need a little over $8000 or ₹40,000, in India (per month) for salaries and additions.

Licensing: Since a food truck is a business, it is important to note that one would need several licenses to begin.

For the US,

Start with a health permit: This will determine the location, hours, your audience, and other street food vendors you may partner with.

This will cost you, $800 – $5000.

For India,  

Food license: For starters, the FSSAI license (Food Safety and Standards Authority of India) is required, since a food truck is essentially a food business. The same standards related to the availability of safe and wholesome foods for human consumption need to be followed, and businesses with an annual turnover of ₹12 lakhs or more are required to obtain this license.

Follow these steps to get your FSSAI license.

Fire Department NOC: Since the trucks have gas appliances like fryers, boilers, and ovens, chances of a fire-related accident happening exist, no matter how little. Therefore, a certificate from the Chief Fire Officer is compulsory.

Permission from the local municipal corporation: Permission from the local municipal corporation is required for locations where the entrepreneur intends to serve food.

Commercial vehicle license: A vehicle license issued by RTO of commercial vehicles, and a NOC of vehicle ownership is required.

All the required paperwork would cost you approximately ₹25,000.

Health & safety concerns

Food truck businesses carry a health and hygiene concern with them, which arises from the fact that food truck employees have to do their jobs in a very confined space, which is typically 8 x 20 feet on average, and due to the restricted space, trucks often lack equipment that restaurants are able to use. This leads to more contamination. Air pollution is another area of consideration.

According to an article by The Los Angeles Times, about 27% of the food truck businesses in the city earned lower than an A grade, as per a review by Los Angeles County Department of Public Health. In comparison, 5% of restaurants and almost 18% of food carts fell below that mark.

Onto the “softer” stuff

What theme can I go for?

Now that you have the necessary information required to start a food truck business, you need to decide on a theme. Your theme may be influenced by the menu you choose, or the location you decide to serve at, or a combination of both. It could also be influenced by a culinary experience you once went through or a story that is true to you.

How can I brand my food truck?

Once you have your theme or concept it’s time to turn that into your brand. Branding is one of the first steps one must take in order to promote their product or service. It is a way to attract customers, by spreading a message, and a vision, that shows the public what the company is all about.

In order for your food truck to become popular, you will need to brand it as well. A brand isn’t simply the tagline of your company, but also the name, the various designs, the packaging, and the story your company carries. All of them need to be catchy enough to attract the attention of prospective consumers, in order for them to give your products a try. While building your brand, you need to take care of the following aspects-

Name and tagline: The name of your food truck is the first thing that customers will look at, and thus, it needs to be catchy. In today’s world, using basic names rarely works; the name of your food truck needs to have a punch, while at the same time, it must inform the people about what exactly you’re selling. Coupled with the name is the tagline, which works best when it’s both catchy and clever. Use of humor and/or wordplay tends to work best.

Captures the spirit of your food and service

Gives your brand a personality

Differentiates you from your competition

Helps you resonate and relate with your customers

These are just a few tips to name your food truck. You might want to dive deeper into naming ideas.

Design and logo: Your company’s design and logo are visual representations of what you’re offering to the masses. While there are many ways to go about it, your design should be such that it works best on both posters and packaging. It is important to keep in mind that the usage of colors is an important aspect of your design and logo, and thus, it is always wise to hire or take the help of a professional designer to get this done.

Brand story: Brands have a variety of stories. Some of overcoming hardships, some of becoming successful overnight, some of discovering something, and some that involve two or more people from the same or different backgrounds coming together to create something unique. Remember, a good story always sells.

Your brand image will be one of the factors that are going to determine the continuity of your business in the long run. Therefore, it is a must that you take your time to come up with something that is strong and is guaranteed to attract customers.

How can I promote my food truck business?

After you have given your food truck business a unique name, design, and logo, it is time to begin marketing it. There are several ways to market your product to potential customers, and you can take advantage of a combination of those in order to achieve your business goals and reach more customers. You must choose what works best for your brand.

In today’s times, however, it is necessary to promote your food truck business through the following means:

Website and/or application: A website describes everything about the business- its story, products, and services offered, available discounts, etc. Using these means are a great way to reach more people outside your designated geographical zone, and educate people about your food truck. Mobile applications make ease of access easier for customers, due to their generally user-friendly interfaces. And a well-designed website that allows your customers to place orders for a pick-up is a good idea to start off with.

Search engine visibility or “food trucks near me”: People keep Googling queries like “food trucks near me” or “food trucks in (name of the city)” all the time. It is important to make sure your website ranks higher in search engine searches, through the use of proper keywords or paid campaigns. Ranking higher in search engines allows more and more people to view your website and click on them, thereby garnering more attention. For food trucks businesses, however, search results are often dominated by food magazine articles called “listicles”. These lists round up the best in a given city, neighborhood or region. You could get in touch with these magazines to explore your options of getting reviewed or running a campaign on their platform.

Social media marketing or “sliding into DMs”: Social media websites will be your friend when it comes to promoting your product. Sites like Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter allow you to buy ads for a reasonable price, thereby helping you promote your work further. Most Social Media platforms are welcoming more direct communication with customers (which is perfect for a food truck business). Instagram is the go-to social network for food businesses. And with WhatsApp launching a WhatsApp for Business, it is easier for people to keep in touch with the company through a phone number. WhatsApp For Business is a relatively new tool that allows businesses to have their own verified WhatsApp number, in order to interact with customers over textual messages and send them promotional messages. The idea behind this is to give customers a more personalized feel and retain them longer.

Apart from these online means to promote your food truck business, you should look to take advantage of a few traditional methods as well. With food trucks businesses, the following tools of promotions would work the best.

Fliers and posters: Fliers and posters are effective for local communication. You could distribute fliers and put up posters in neighborhoods that you visit frequently or get more sales from. You could do this ahead of time so that you have a long line of customers when you visit.

Promotional offers: Offering customers benefits such as a discount or buy 2 get 1 free is a surefire way to gain new customers and popularity. You may also offer loyalty points and coupons that offer a free meal after a set number of purchases, in an attempt to look for long term customers.

Try these ideas to promote your restaurant.

Developing contacts: It is important to be able to maintain important relations with people, especially those who hold an important place in society and can help popularize your food truck business. Food critics, journalists and food events organizers, to be specific.

Offer to help: Once you develop contacts, you can offer to provide catering services to the people you know in order to build your credibility. The extra revenue would not hurt either.

Follow up with customers: One way to retain customers is by following up with them, thanking them for visiting your food truck and taking their opinions and criticisms respectfully.

Get involved with the community: Take part in community events and interact with people, keeping in mind that every person is a potential customer.

Give out handouts and coupons: Handouts and coupons are a great way to promote your food truck since they provide information and a possible method to spread awareness of discounts and other special offers.

How to appeal to customers with customer service

The following are a few good tips to follow in order to correctly appeal to potential customers:

It is important to mentally prepare yourself for long hours of service and make preparations for the same.

Keeping a positive attitude is essential, especially when things seem to become chaotic.

Caring about customers by striking up conversations with them.

Being community-minded will allow you to gel well with the people and reach more people.

Whatever means you use to promote your food truck business, it must be able to strike a chord with the people you are targeting. Not all methods work for everyone. Constantly refining your customer service is possibly the single most important way (apart from your food of course) of gaining a fan following.

Thus, it’s important to carefully choose your method of promotion by looking into your target market and budget.

Which restaurant POS should I use?

Running your food truck business means you will have to manage lots of data. To track sales and accounting. But this data can be used in many other clever ways. Regardless of how data-heavy your approach is, you will still need to store all this data.

This problem is solved with a Restaurant Point of Sale (POS) System.

Restaurant point-of-sale systems (Restaurant POS) enable transactions, increase operational functionality that enhances the guest experience and streamlines business operations. For your food truck, you’ll need a POS in order to conduct your business smoothly and without too much hassle.

But what POS must you choose from? Here is a list of the ones you can opt to use:

Traditional restaurant POS: The traditional restaurant POS has dominated restaurants for a very long time. These systems run on a closed internal network and store data on local servers. These are built on the traditional client-server groundwork and aim to provide high-end functions such as inventory management, customer relationship management, and analytics, in order to meet the increasing demands of the restaurant industry. As such, the cost of maintenance is high as well. This system, however, has its drawbacks, which include:

Risk of data loss

Expensive to maintain

Requires constant maintenance

Not scalable

Does not provide a complete solution

Cloud Restaurant POS: Cloud POS allows restaurants to access information remotely instead of having to be physically present, due to the information already being uploaded to the internet. With this system, there is a lesser risk of you losing your data and you can carry on with your transactions even when the internet is unavailable; they will simply sync when the internet comes back on. Most importantly, cloud POS is much cheaper to use than traditional POS. However, cloud POS charge a regular fee, that can get quite expensive in the long run, and most of its features become unavailable upon disconnection from the internet.

Once again, the choice of POS lies in your hands, but it is important to weigh the pros and cons of both the options and go for the one that suits your needs the most. For a detailed guide on which POS you should look to choose, read our guide on Choosing a Restaurant POS system.

A cloud-based POS, or cPOS allows data to be stored in a cloud server. While a physical system isn’t required, a stable internet connection is a must in order for this to work properly. They offer the services that traditional POS systems offer, as well as for analytics, customer relationship, loyalty, and inventory management.

All that is left, is to start!

If you are exploring a food truck business idea, know that it’s not all easy. There are setup costs, licenses and permits to navigate. On top of marketing your food truck business, building your brand and gaining followers. But it also is a good entry into the food business world with lesser risks and financial burden. Most of all, it is a good way to give shape to your dreams of having a food business.

And being outdoors, seeing customers smile, traveling and doing what you love, is definitely a bonus. Wouldn’t you say?

[magmasliveblogs]

1.03 R

ok yeah until the fall comes and with it my better internet i just cant keep anything close to a consistent schedule with this! ill just do two whenever i can until fall. to recap: last chapter we learned more about runners, and that we met perusa, who is frankly a character that is written to be as hated as any extremely snooty highschool clicue leader ie: extremely 

Some days were odd days. Some days you ran, and some days you found yourself in another world with nothing but an iPhone and the clothes on your back. Some days you made ice cream.

But it was a rare day that Ryoka found herself making ice cream in a noble woman’s house, surrounded by maids, in a kitchen that could have rivaled any cooking show’s setup for expense and expensive things.

She felt out of place in the spotless room, handling the equivalent of stainless steel cooking utensils. Ryoka was still barefoot, and she was painfully conscious of how her feet were dirtying the flawless floor tiling. Not that Lady Magnolia seemed to mind.

The beaming lady of the mansion hovered around Ryoka, excitedly showing her the contents of the amply-stocked kitchen. She opened pantry doors and revealed shelf after shelf of exotic ingredients that Ryoka half-recognized. Sugar, okay, that made sense. But red sugar? Harvested from the desert? And that was normal compared to delicacies like Wyvern meat.

“Nasty stuff. I tried it once but couldn’t bear the taste of it. It’s very healthy, or so I’m told but…”

Lady Magnolia indicated the purplish haunch sitting on a plate on a shelf. Ryoka stared at the glistening meat and silently wondered what it did taste like.

The oddness of the kitchen wasn’t that it was so grand, or had so many equivalents to modern cooking equipment. No, it was that most of the food storage in the kitchen consisted of shelves of food left out in the open. And even in the pantry, items like milk, butter, and even fresh vegetables had been neatly stockpiled away without any kind of refrigeration.

There was no helping it. Ryoka had to ask. She cut off Lady Magnolia as the other woman began talking about a strange jello that looked like it was moving.

magnolia is rich, of course she can afford all of this stuff 

“Doesn’t all this rot?”

Magnolia glanced at the shelves of uncovered food while the maids following her gave Ryoka silent glares.

“This? I shouldn’t think so. I paid for the best preservation spells and I have an [Enchanter] come by every year or so to make sure the runes are holding. My chefs are quite pleased with all the space, which I do need for all the delightful treats I order.”

Ryoka stared at the tiny etched runes on the side of each cupboard. Preservation runes? Well, that was handy. She wondered just how expensive they were.

“Not too expensive, at least for the quality of work done. Mages charge very affordable prices. I gather most inns and some of the larger shops use such runes quite often.”

Lady Magnolia smiled as Ryoka’s head shot up and the younger woman looked at her.

“Not mind reading my dear. Just an educated guess and a few skills. I’m sure you’ve heard it said that it is a frivolous class, but [Ladies] have a few useful tricks in social situations.”

“Mm.”

“Oh, you are quite taciturn, aren’t you? I’ve met dragons more forthcoming, but very well. Let us make this ice cream! How shall we begin?”

Magnolia waited excitedly as Ryoka looked around the room and tried to remember all of the ingredients. It had been a long time since Ryoka made ice cream. She’d almost forgotten how, but as a child—

“We need some salt too. A pinch of it. And vanilla.”

“Of course. Ressa?”

The head maid nodded and directed her maids to the appropriate shelves. She paused as one maid brought her a bundle of wrapped vanilla bean stalks.

“They are quite expensive, milady.”

Lady Magnolia pshed and waved at Ressa impatiently.

“Oh, nonsense, Ressa, don’t be a spoilsport. I’m minded to give Ryoka anything she wants if she can make this ice cream.”

“One stalk is fine.”

Ryoka accepted the dry, stick-like piece of vanilla from the glowering maid and broke it open. She sniffed at the strong smell and began extracting the beans from within.

“Now we need to heat the milk, salt, and sugar together in a pot. Got a big one?”

Lady Magnolia clapped her hands together as Ressa glowered and found a large, polished pot and set it over one of the kitchen stoves.

“Oh, I see! You’re making a custard! How delightful!”

Silently, Ryoka mixed the ingredients together and created a creamy, off-white custard in the pot. She poked at it with her spoon and decided it was thick enough for ice cream. What next? Oh, right.

“…Crap.”

This time Ryoka’s language nearly earned her a slap on the back of the head. Ressa’s hand twitched, and a small vein began to throb on her forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

“I might not be able to make this after all. I forgot something.”

Lady Magnolia looked dismayed. She peered into the pot.

“It looks perfectly fine to me, but—is there an ingredient missing?”

Ryoka shook her head. She gestured at the pot.

“We need to freeze this. Or rather, we need to freeze it slowly while stirring.”

That was a big problem. For all this world had things like preservation spells, Ryoka was sure they hadn’t invented freezers or air-conditioning. But to her surprise Lady Magnolia laughed and put her hand over her ample bosom in relief.

“Oh, is that all?”

Magnolia waved an airy hand. She turned to another one of her maids.

“Yvony, would you be a dear and send a message to the Mage’s Guild? Tell them I need an [Elementalist] mage capable of using basic ice magic.”

Bemused, Ryoka watched as Yvony, a fair-haired maid with fairer complexion bowed and quickly trotted out of the room.

“Is she going to run there?”

Lady Magnolia chuckled politely and the other maids smiled.

“We are not all as fleet-footed as you Runners. No, she’s just here to bring me���ah, thank you Yvony.”

The maid had returned with a small, blue book covered in gold latticework on the cover. Lady Magnolia opened it and showed Ryoka the blank pages as Yvony unscrewed an ink pot and dipped a quill in it.

“If you will observe, this is a magical book. One of two, in fact. Whenever one writes on one page, the other book immediately copies over the same writing. It’s quite the ingenious way of talking without needing to cast a [Telepathy] or [Far Chat] spell each time.”

while those spells never appear again, i hesitate to call them non canon because magnolia uses the same sort of affects later 

She handed the book to Yvony as the maid wrote a few brisk, short lines on the paper. The book glowed once, and then the light faded from the pages. Magnolia clapped her hands together and turned to Ryoka.

“And now we wait. A mage should be along in a matter of minutes. The Mage’s Guild is quite prompt at responding, and happily they are located only a few streets away. Shall we retire for a cup of tea?”

Given her choice, Ryoka would have refused, but the thing about a request made by a lady is that it is not really a request. In short order she found herself sitting and sipping from a hot cup of tea and trying not to make a face.

Her heritage as a Japanese-American said that she should at least appreciate good tea, as Ryoka had Japanese grandparents who insisted she try the stuff. But her American roots and personality insisted coffee was the only way to live. Sadly, she hadn’t encountered that beverage yet so she pretended to drink her tea while Magnolia chattered away.

“I must say, I have been absolutely dying to know what it is that makes you run, Miss Ryoka. If I may confess—I’m not asking you solely out of pure interest as well. I have a teensy bet going on with some other ladies in my gossip circle about it.”

Ryoka paused. She was used to attention for running barefoot, but this was the first time she’d ever been bet on.

“Really?”

“Why, haven’t you realized what a splash you’ve made? The tale of a new Runner with exotic features appearing in the middle of a crowded street suddenly is quite the story, and that’s not even with you becoming the fastest Runner in the area. People are wondering why you run barefoot. Is it part of a special class? Or is it a secret?”

“No secret.”

Magnolia waited, but the young woman sitting across from her said nothing more. She cleared her throat politely.

“Then—would you mind telling me? I would simply love to know.”

Lady Magnolia leaned forwards over her tea eagerly. Even the maids were quietly listening as they bustled around the drawing room performing menial and unneeded tasks.

Ryoka shrugged.

“I just like running barefoot. I hate shoes.”

Her audience blinked at her. Ryoka shrugged. There wasn’t much more to say. She eyed the maids as they shifted and exchanged glances behind their mistress’s back. Idly, Ryoka wondered how much gossiping they did when they were done with work.

Silence followed Ryoka’s answer, which was then broken by laughter. Lady Magnolia chuckled, and then laughed quietly. It wasn’t boisterous or uncontrolled; like everything else about her, it was polite and refined. But it was genuine.

“You, my dear Ryoka Griffin, are the most delightful young lady I have ever met!”

She lifted her cup and a waiting maid filled it with the dark brown tea that Ryoka was trying not to ingest.

“A simple answer, but not from a simple person. I suppose our little gossip circle will have to annul the bet. How interesting. Well then, now that my curiosity has been assuaged, shall we play a game while we wait for our mage to arrive?”

Ryoka paused. She glanced at Magnolia’s face and frowned.

“…What sort of game?”

“Oh please Ryoka my dear. Don’t be so suspicious. I don’t intend to pry—well, I do, but I won’t force you to say anything you truly don’t wish. I simply propose a game of guessing. I play it all the time with friends for dirty secrets and intrigue. You may ask one question of me, and I in turn shall ask a question which I hope you will answer truthfully. Does that sound fair?”

Ryoka shrugged. Magnolia smiled wider.

“Well then, since I have asked you about your bare feet, why don’t you start with a question.”

Reluctantly, Ryoka pondered. She looked down at her tea, up at the ceiling, around at the maids, and then at Magnolia. At last, she shrugged.

“I can’t think of a question.”

Magnolia’s face fell.

“Not even one? Aren’t you curious about something? I have a veritable wealth of gossip and actual knowledge at my disposal.”

Again, Ryoka shrugged. It wasn’t that she couldn’t think of a million questions to ask, but she really didn’t want to ask Magnolia said questions.  And she enjoyed the older woman’s discomfort.

“…Not really. Why don’t you ask a question?”

Although she was clearly disappointed, Lady Magnolia rallied in an instant.

“Well then, I would dearly love to know where you come from Miss Ryoka Griffin. Let me see. Are you, by any chance, a native of the northern continent?”

Ryoka raised an eyebrow.

“Which one?”

Magnolia’s face went blank.

“Which one? Well I suppose—the main one. Unless you mean one of the islands is a continent? No—I am referring to the human continent, Terandia. Are you from there by any chance?”

“Nope.”

“Well, well. In that case, are you from the east? The Isles of Minos house a small human population. Or perhaps you are an islander? In the archipelagos there are many exotic peoples with features not unlike yours.”

Ryoka shook her head. She was learning a lot.

“Never been there.”

Magnolia pursed her lips.

“My instincts are completely off. Fine then. I wouldn’t guess it, but—the frozen archipelago? Or perhaps the untamed wilds of this continent?”

“No, and no.”

“Well, are you from the southern lands? I can’t imagine how, but perhaps you grew up among the Gnoll tribes or among the Drake settlements?”

“Nope.”

Ryoka smiled. Magnolia eyed her with a slight frown.

“I merely ask as clarification—you did not grow up among the Antinium, perhaps? They have several Colonies to the south and one unique Colony in the city of Liscor.”

Again, Ryoka shook her head. Magnolia tapped her spoon against her tea cup in vexation.

“Very well. But if you aren’t from one of the main continents…aha! You grew up in Wistram, the isle of mages! Or—or in the mountains among Dwarves? Far-fetched, but perhaps…you lived on the sea as a child?”

“All wrong.”

Ryoka grinned. Around her the maids looked suspicious, as if they suspected her of lying to their mistress. But Magnolia gazed at Ryoka with a frown. She opened her mouth, but at that moment a firm but polite knock echoed from the front door.

ooo all these interesting places! also, it seems ryoka is very secretive 

Reluctantly, Magnolia turned her gaze away from Ryoka. She put down her tea cup and swept to her feet.

“Hm. Well, let us not keep our mage waiting.”

Ryoka was already up, and she followed Lady Magnolia to the front door. Because she was standing behind her, she didn’t see the deep frown Magnolia wore on her face before she turned it into a smile as she welcomed the ice mage into her home.

yay ice mage! 

Ice cream. It tasted sweet, was hopefully cold, and apparently, was about as addictive as hardcore drugs to those who’d never had it before.

She hadn’t been too sure about her recipe, but at Lady Magnolia’s insistence, Ryoka had filled a huge pot with custard. After the mage had arrived and the ice cream had been successfully churned into the frozen treat with a few hiccups, Lady Magnolia, her maids, and even the mage had joined Ryoka in eating the ice cream.

As a result, the big pot was now empty and Ryoka’s stomach was not happy with her. The mage had left just half an hour ago, clutching at his stomach and head. He still had a blissful smile on his face, though.

To Ryoka’s surprise, the mage had been quite interested in making ice cream. Perhaps that was just his personality, but it was also probably due to Magnolia’s infectious enthusiasm. She’d had a maid taking notes of Ryoka’s every action as she’d figured out how to mix the ice cream properly.

Well, that was fine in the end because it meant that Ryoka didn’t have to explain how to make the ice cream twice. And now that the ice cream was eaten, Ryoka could finally leave. She was at the final stage of that process—trying to shake off Lady Magnolia at the door.

“I still can’t believe you won’t take at least some token for teaching me this delightful recipe.”

Ryoka shrugged as Lady Magnolia fussed around her. The almost-lethal amounts of sugar the older woman had imbibed didn’t seem to be slowing her down like the other maids and Ryoka. Even Ressa, the faithful head maid looked slightly ill after coming down from the sugar high and realizing how much she’d eaten, but Magnolia was as energetic and bright as ever.

With a sigh, Lady Magnolia gave up on the issue, much to Ryoka’s relief. She’d refused all suggestions of payment. It felt wrong, especially for ice cream. At last, Magnolia had given up the argument and Ryoka was finally about to leave.

curse you ryoka and your lack of greed in this moment! you dont have the benefits of levels so you should take all the help you can get! 

“Won’t you at least take some of your delightful ice cream with you? We happen to have several baskets enchanted with preservation spells. I would be most happy to make a gift of one to you.”

Ryoka hesitated as the maid named Ressa coughed and muttered about the expense. That was tempting. Not the ice cream—but a magical basket sounded extremely useful. But again…

“…No. I’m fine, thanks.”

Lady Magnolia sighed, but she made no further arguments, much to Ryoka and her head maid’s relief. Ryoka finished stretching out the leg that had fallen asleep and then moved to open the door. Ressa intercepted her and held the door open politely. Her hands were gloved. Apparently, that made a big difference to what she could touch and Ryoka couldn’t.

Time to run. But Ryoka turned at the door and nodded to Lady Magnolia.

“Thanks.”

“On the contrary, it is I who should thank you Miss Ryoka. But if I might have one last question before you go?”

Ryoka reluctantly paused at the door as Ressa closed it in her face. She turned slightly and glanced at Magnolia.

“Do you, in fact, come from any place in this world?”

Silence. Ryoka’s face didn’t change, but Magnolia smiled.

“I hope you will accept more requests from me in the future. I would so love to chat.”

Ryoka was gone before Magnolia finished speaking.

magnolia has figured it out! she has figured it out! *warning sirens blare*

Lady Magnolia watched Ryoka jog and then transition into a slow run as she reached the end of the street.

“My, but she is quick.”

Behind her Magnolia sensed but did not see her maid Ressa nod her head in silent agreement. One of the perks of being a [Lady] was the ability to detect far more than her posture or physical limitations indicated. It also allowed Lady Magnolia to exhibit a certain degree of poise at all times, no matter how much her stomach might be hurting.

But these were lesser concerns, and so Magnolia banished them from her mind. Her eyes followed Ryoka as the Runner vanished around the corner and tapped her lips. Then she turned to her maid.

“Ressa, please contact the Mage’s Guild and let them know I request a spell cast upon my person tonight.”

Ressa bobbed a curtsy.

“Very good, milady. Which spell do you require?”

“Hm. The long distance speaking spell. I forget exactly what the name of the spell is. They are familiar with the one.”

Ressa paused. She bowed her head.

“Begging your lady’s pardon…”

“Go on, Ressa.”

“That particular spell is—quite expensive, milady. Would a lesser spell of communication not suffice?”

“No, I’m afraid not. The spell is expensive, but it is also worth the cost of secrecy and privacy. I appreciate your concern dear Ressa, but nevertheless. Make the request.”

“Yes, milady.”

it seems magnolia will share this info with at least one person 

I have to slow down after I get a few streets away from Magnolia’s house. I put my hand on my stomach and try not to throw up.

“Woog.”

Ice cream is not good for my body, especially if I have to run. I feel like I’ve got a rock in my stomach. And yet, it might have been worth it. If only it hadn’t been vanilla*, life might have been perfect.

*If I have to eat ice cream, it’s got to be mint chocolate chip. Vanilla is just vanilla. But I love mint. And peppermint. And spearmint. I…really wish I had some gum.

As I slowly walk and then transitioned back into a slow jog I think about Magnolia, or as I now know her, the scariest person I’ve met in this world. Apparently, someone with her class can practically read minds, or at least tell how I’m feeling. That is not a comforting thought.

Jeez. She nearly figured out where I came from in a few minutes. What a terrifyingly scary lady.

It might be wrong to think, but when I first met her I thought she was just another plump social butterfly without a thought in the world. But…that’s what she wants people to assume about her. The real Magnolia is sharp and intelligent. Remember that next time you visit her.

…Which won’t be for a while. I know there’s going to be hell to pay if Persua has her way, and besides, now I have a good reason not to visit Magnolia in the future.

“Right. No Magnolia deliveries for a while.”

But with that said, I will be doing research on her. I’ll just bet Garia knows something about her—how Magnolia got her wealth, if she was married, etc. Know your enemy, right? Well, Magnolia isn’t my enemy, and I’d like to keep her that way.

��Garia. Her name triggers a thought in my mind as I run down another street. It’s getting empty this late in the day, but I see another Street Runner disappear the instant I turn down the street. Garia. Oh. Oh yeah.

Tomorrow I have to do that delivery with Garia. That will be a pain. Not just because we’ve got to carry fifty pounds on our backs, but because she’s going to talk to me the entire time. Which is fine. It’s a normal, human thing to do. It’s just a pain in the ass.

Well, I promised so that’s that. Forget about it, but don’t actually forget about it. At least I won’t have to stick around the Runner’s Guild too long waiting for another job.

I wonder whether there will be any consequences for making ice cream. What a ridiculous thought but…let’s explore that. Hm.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to share the recipe, but it got Magnolia off my back about where I came from. But what does it mean to spread that kind of information?

Well…if I had to guess, it would mean that the poor person who invented ice cream isn’t going to be as rich as she or he hopes. But it also might mean a revolution of sorts within the city. Ice cream is exceptionally possible, and thanks to magic, easy to make even in this day and age.

Does that mean I might soon see it on the streets? But no—unless you have a mage on standby, ice cream isn’t easy to keep. I guess the nobility will enjoy it for the most part until someone revolutionizes the ice box or fridge. That’s the way it goes, right? Trickle-down, just like how the ice cream cone melts.

I get that far in my reasoning when I notice the other runners. They appear from behind me and from other streets in a huge crowd. Ten—no, twenty Street Runners appear out of nowhere and surround me. It’s so sudden that I don’t think of running away before they’re all around me.

oh no 

What the hell is going on? Suddenly, I’m running in a crowd and they’re jostling and forcing me to run at their speed. I recognize a few of them from the guild, but why are they here? Well, whatever they’re doing it’s aimed at me. I try to push out of the crowd, but they’re packed too tightly.

“Get away.”

They ignore me. Well, of course they do. I try to shove my way left, but when I do they bunch up and ram into me. Hard.

“You annoying—”

Okay, no more nice girl, not that there ever was one to begin with. I stop suddenly, and trip up two of the runners behind me. It turns out to be a mistake, because they trip and fall and their shoes kick into my feet and ankles as they go down.

“Damn it.”

Gyaaaaaaah! That really hurt! But now I’m free. I really want to check my feet and see if their stupid shoes ripped any skin, but something’s up. I turn and run left even as the pack of Street Runners turns to follow me.

They shove me left, onto a smaller street. At this point I’m really starting to get annoyed. I could get nastier, but if it comes down to a fight against this many people they’d kick the crap out of me. No, screw it. I can lose these idiots the instant I get out of the city gates. I’ll go to Remendia and if more of them show up there I’ll talk to the City Watch. Or the Runner’s Guild.

All I have to do is break free of the group. And that’s easy and hard at the same time. The easy part is grabbing one runner by the shoulder and shoving her hard so she smacks into a wall. The hard part’s going to be when they start trying to hit me.

But they don’t. All at once the pack of Street Runners in front of me breaks up. Another three steps and I’ll be in the clear. Why the hell would they—

I see it too late. A foot’s there to trip me up, and though I try to jump over it, it catches me and down I go.

Ow. All the air goes out of me. Okay, damn. But they’re gone. That means—

Rumbling. I feel it in the ground and look up too late. A heavy cart pulled by a large mule thunders at me down the small street.

Oh. Of course.

I roll, and see a familiar sallow face grinning at me as the other Runners disappear into alleys. Get up. Get up!

The cart barrels down towards me as I scramble to my feet. I dodge left, but then something slams into me. It feels like I just hit a patch of solid air. Magic. Down I go, winded.

I look up and see the massive wheels crunching down the road towards me. So quick. And I’m lying right in its way.

Oh. Yeah. I’d almost forgotten what I hate about the world. Sometimes I forget, but I’m always reminded in time. What I hate about the world is—

People.

For once I’m too slow.

Snap.

that ending snap is italisized and blood red on the website btw 

thats the end of the chapter! is this connected to perusa? what bone did ryoka break? 

see you next post! which i cant make today due to said bad internet 

[quentinsquill]

The 16th Loop

Author: Lexalicious70 (Neptune_Rising70)

Fandom: The Magicians (TV show) 

Pairing: Eliot Waugh/Margo Hanson (platonic friendship/soulmates)

Warnings: Brief depictions of physical abuse, mention of major character deaths  

Genre: AU/alternate time loop. I play fast and loose with the timeline here, kids.

Word Count: 4,972

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: In the 16th time loop, Jane brings Eliot and Margo to Brakebills as teenagers, where they learn about magic, each other, and what it means to reveal your true self to someone you love.

A/N: This story is for the 2017 Welters Challenge. Theme: “Brakebills.” I don’t own The Magicians: no profit earned, this is just for fun. Kudos and comments are magic! Enjoy!

 The 16th Loop

By Lexalicious70 (aka Neptune_Rising70 or TheChampagneKing70)

 “It’s getting worse for him, Henry. Please, you have to help!”

 Eliot sat in the room just off the kitchen, the one his mother insisted on called “the parlor,” even though its tatty salmon-colored rug was discolored with age and foot traffic and the lamps were all mongrels from the local thrift store, listening. His left arm still ached fiercely from where his father had punched it, just above the elbow, and while his nose had finally stopped bleeding, it felt tender and swollen. He held the handkerchief their visitor had given him—Henry Fogg, his mother had said his name was—against his nose anyway, enjoying the comfort of its silken feel. In a world of rough, scratchy wool and worn-out cotton, the handkerchief, which was a midnight blue with slightly lighter pinpoints, was the most luxurious thing Eliot had ever touched. He hoped the man would let him keep it.

 “I run a university for magical pedagogy, Helen, not a home for wayward boys!”

 “He’s not a wayward boy, Henry, he’s my son and his innate abilities are only getting stronger! He’s barely been able to control his telekinesis, much less hide it from his father! Frank knows something’s different about him and it’s making him lash out. Please, Henry, I’m begging you, as a former student—”

 “A former student, a talented one, who dropped out because some young man with big arms caught her eye at an off-campus party! A man who caused that student to give up magic! I advised you not to go with him, and now this is the result! Your son is at the mercy of abilities he inherited from you, and because you gave up your own, he has no one to help him get them under control!”

 “But he does! You can! Please, take him to Brakebills with you! Cast a spell over his father, make him believe Eliot’s gone to a private school, before he does something to Eliot that he can’t take back!”

 Eliot closed his eyes as silence spun out in the kitchen. Finally, Fogg sighed.

 “Very well. I’ll foster the boy, Helen. I have another student his age that also needs asylum—a special case out of Los Angeles. Question is, will your son be willing to accompany me, a stranger, to a place he’s never been?”

 Eliot got to his feet, torn between waiting for his mother to call him and admitting he’d been listening. He didn’t have to wait long.

 “Eliot? Come in here, now!” His mother called, and he went to the doorway. Even at sixteen, the top of his head brushed the curved alcove. Unlike most of the sturdy, sunbaked farm boys in Whiteland, he was slender and pale, his form a startled exclamation point. Deep-set amber eyes regarded first his mother, and then Fogg. Fogg noticed that while the boy’s dark hair was cut short, almost brutally so, the whorls around his ears told the Brakebills dean that it would riot with curls if allowed to grow.

 “Yes, ma?” Eliot asked, and his mother nodded at Henry.

 “You’re to go with Dean Fogg now. He’s going to look after you, help you with your—your problems. You understand?”

 “Yes, ma.” Eliot nodded, turning toward the older man. He offered Fogg back his handkerchief and Fogg waved it away casually. Something warm bloomed in Eliot’s chest as he tucked the satiny thing away, and he vowed to clean it as soon as he could.

 “Go pack a bag. I can send the rest of your things.” His mother said, and Eliot glanced out the window, where he could see his father’s bulky silhouette out in the north field as he rock picked.

 “What about dad?” He asked, and his mother smiled.

 “Don’t worry about your father. Dean Fogg will talk to him.” Her mother started to reach out to touch his face but stopped, as she always did, depriving him of her affection at the last moment. “Go on. Go pack. Everything’ll be just fine, son, you’ll see.”

  An hour later, Eliot found himself carrying his battered vinyl suitcase and old boy scout knapsack as Fogg created a portal behind his family’s barn. Fogg stepped toward it.

 “Come along now, Eliot, you’re perfectly safe.” He said without looking back, and Eliot stepped through the portal after him. The thing snapped shut behind him as Eliot looked over his shoulder at it, and then they were making their way through some thick green bushes. Unlike the bleak November sky they’d left behind in Indiana, the one over Eliot’s head was a bright blue, the air warm and filled with the smell of growing things.

 “Did we travel in time, Mr. Fogg?”

 “Dean Fogg. You may call me Dean. And no . . . the wards around Brakebills are very old and time here tends to warp. So while it may be almost December back in the ordinary world, it’s spring here. You’ll get used to it. Hurry along, it’s nearly dinnertime and I want to get you squared away.” Fogg led him toward a three-story building with double doors. It stood in the shadow of the main building, and Eliot looked up at the massive granite block with the school’s name chiseled into it as they passed. Fogg opened the doors of the smaller building and the stale, rather industrial smell of a dormitory hallway drifted out.

 “I know this probably isn’t what you expected, but you’re much too young to stay in the Physical Kids cottage, even I suspect that you’ll place there later. The students there are much older and I don’t believe you’re ready for their brand of—well—merriment. For now, you’ll stay here.” Fogg opened up a plain wooden door onto a small dormitory room. There was a full bed, a wooden chest of drawers, a study desk, and a few empty shelves. A thin closet was built into the opposite wall, and on the other was another door. Eliot looked around.

 “These are connecting dorms. They’re designed to give the students a feeling of camaraderie and association. You may lock or keep it open to allow your neighbor access, it’s up to you. Now, usually we don’t have an issue with space, but thanks to a very wet winter, this is the only building that isn’t being treated for mold.” Fogg crossed the room and knocked on the door. It opened to reveal the most petite girl Eliot had ever seen. Dean Fogg wasn’t a big man but she barely came to his shoulder. Deep-set dark eyes tipped up at him, her heart-shaped face framed by long brunette hair. Dean Fogg motioned her forward.

 “Margo, come in. I want you to meet someone. This is Eliot Waugh, he’ll be staying in the dorm adjacent to yours. Eliot, this is Margo Hanson.”

 “Hullo.” Eliot set his things down and offered his hand. Margo took it and gave it one squeeze before letting it go as her dark eyes flicked up and down, from the worn brown hiking boots he wore, to his faded jeans and plaid shirt, now almost a size too small for him, to his home haircut.

 “Hi.”

 “Well! I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Margo, perhaps if you filled Eliot in on how things work here at Brakebills and then bring him to the dining hall in about twenty minutes?” He glanced between them. “And I suspect I can leave you? There won’t be any shenanigans, the kind that happen when boys and girls are left to their own devices?”

 A sardonic smile twisted across Margo’s painted lips.

 “Oh, I think I can guarantee it. Right, Eliot?” She asked, and Eliot nodded, glancing away.

 How the hell did she know?

 “Yes . . . right.”

 “Excellent!” Fogg nodded. “Dinner in twenty minutes then. Welcome to Brakebills, Eliot.” The dean shut the door behind him and Margo looked down at Eliot’s meager collection of belongings before her dark eyes flicked over the shirt he wore.

 “That shirt is for someone like half your height. What’s up with that?” She asked, and Eliot took a deep breath.

 “I grew. Over the summer. And there wasn’t much money for new things.”

 “Well no offense, sweetie, but you look like a scarecrow that someone forgot to stuff. Job one? Get you some new clothes.”

 “How?” Eliot asks, and Margo grins.

 “Oh, there’s ways. We can’t have you walking around looking like that!”

 Eliot sat down on the bed.

 “You’re my age, right? Sixteen? How come you’re here?”

 “I used unauthorized magic to rob a bank in Los Angeles.”

 Eliot stared at her, wondering if this was some kind of weird joke city people told, but then Margo frowned at him.

 “What? I needed the money! Fogg’s magical GPA locators found me, so instead of me going into hiding or to jail, he brought me here. He says I have potential.” Margo scoffed and rolled her eyes. “What’s your story, farm fresh?”

 “I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Except that I can make things happen just by thinking about them and that my mother made me come here with Dean Fogg because of it.”

 “Telekinesis? That should come in handy! Come on—I know a guy, a third year, who’s about your height. Maybe we can persuade him to let you borrow some clothes.” She took his hand with authority, as if Eliot didn’t have at least three or four inches on her, and tugged him out the door.

 Six Months Later

 “Margo, are you sure about this? Dean Fogg is bound to notice all these new clothes!”

 “Dean Fogg is all wrapped up in trying to organize an international welters challenge. Believe me, we’re way under his radar.” Margo dropped several dozen shopping bags on Eliot’s bed.

 “But we robbed a casino!”

 “Ah!” Margo turned and wagged a finger at him. “We did not rob it! We just . . . persuaded a few of the machines to spin in our favor, that’s all! It was a measly three grand, Eliot. Not a big deal.”

 “But the fake IDs?”

 “It’s not my fault that the state thinks I’m not able to pull a lever down on a slot machine until I’m twenty-one. Because clearly, I do it just fine! Now come on! Quit spoiling it, try on your new stuff!” Margo pulled out dark, tailored trousers, shirts, vests, and ties from the bags. “You’re going to look amazing. And you have a great sense of style for being a farm boy!”

 “Quit calling me that! And I—I used to order catalogs in the mail. Sears and Roebuck, J.C, Penny, so I could look at the clothing. I just never thought I’d own anything as nice as any of this.”

 “Well now you do, and you deserve it. Go ahead! Want me to turn my back so I don’t see you in your undies?”

 “I don’t think it matters.” Eliot replied softly, and Margo frowned.

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “Margo? The day we met and Dean Fogg asked if he could leave us alone together . . . how did you know I was gay?”

 “Oh. Well, I’m not sure if I knew one hundred percent until you replied. I could see it in your face.”

 “Well. You were right. I am. I’m gay. I’ve never told anyone before. I’ve never even said it out loud before.”

 Margo’s dark eyes widened a little.

 “Eliot . . . are you coming out to me?”

 “Yes. I suppose I am. I couldn’t—not to anyone where I lived before.” He took a deep breath and then gave a brief chuckle. “I can’t believe I’m doing it now, actually.”

 “No, no!” Margo went to him and took his hands. “Eliot, I’m flattered. Honored!” She smiled up at him. “We’re best friends, right? How much time have we spent together since we met?”

 “Almost all of it?”

 “Almost all of it!” Margo echoed. “And how much do I like people?”

 “Not very much at all?” Eliot ventured, and Margo rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

 “You bet your ass not very much at all. So what that should tell you, Eliot Waugh, is that we are the best of best bitches and I don’t care if you’re gay, bi, pan, or if you do it with sheep—”

 “Christ, Margo!”

 She put a finger to his lips.

 “Still speaking! My point is, I might not like most people, but I like you. Hell, Eliot . . . I love you. Okay?”

 Eliot’s smile grew into a grin.

 “Okay. Thank you. And—and I love you too.” He turned toward the best and touched a shimmering grey vest with mother-of-pearl buttons. “So, which one do I try on first?”

 Two Years Later

 “I remember when Dean Fogg first brought me to Brakebills. He told me that I couldn’t live here because the older kids’ parties were too wild.” Eliot looked up at the door of the Physical Kids’ cottage. “Why do you suppose he’s changed his mind? Aside from the fact that we got to take the entrance exam early and we both killed it, of course?”

 He and Margo stood side by side with their bags, examining the door. There was a piece of paper tacked to it that read:

 Physical Kids, let yourselves in. 😊

 “Probably because your wardrobe was slowly taking over the dorm room and because you could barely fit through the doorway anymore?” Margo glanced up at her friend and the person she considered her soulmate. He’d changed a great deal from that nervous, closeted boy she’d met two years before. Not only had he grown to well over six feet tall, grown out his dark hair, and learned to style the curls in a way that managed to look both careless and flawless, he’d honed his taste in clothing, in food, and his skill for magic. The ease of which he’d learned the rudimentary spells Fogg had allowed him access to had impressed the dean, and they’d both been allowed to take the exam nearly four years earlier than most students did. Fogg hadn’t been certain of Margo’s chances, but Eliot had refused to take the exam unless she was allowed to as well. Both had passed beyond expectation, and he and Margo had been sorted into the Physical Kids group at Brakebills. Now they were coming to live at the cottage for the remainder of their schooling.

 “Let yourselves in. Mmmmh.” Eliot sighed as he glanced around. “Clearly we have to find our own way in if we want to live here. Any ideas?”

 “You could just bash the door down.” Margo tapped her temple and Eliot’s lips pursed in distaste.

 “That’s so—gauche.”

 “All right, Mr. Gauche, then let’s hear one from you!” Margo put a hand on her hip, and Eliot tipped his eyes skyward in thought before he snapped his fingers.

 “I know! Vester’s Whirlwind!”

 “That’s a cooperative spell, and we’ve only done it once, under Dean Fogg’s explicit supervision!”

 “I know, but what better spell to use for two people trying to get into the same place? Come on Margo, I know you can do it! You’re more talented than you give yourself credit for.”

 “Fine.” Margo rolled her eyes. “Stroke my ego.”

 “If we get this right, then lots of pretty third and fourth years will want to stroke more than that because they will be very impressed.” He took her hands. “Ready?”

 Margo took his hands, nodded, and then closed her eyes. They mirrored each other’s finger movements, touching fingertips, palms, the edges of their hands, until the spell began to form around them. They began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster, their forms blurring, edges becoming less defined. Eliot kept chanting but he could feel the way he was joining with Margo, their skin, their muscles, their cells touching, and then they simply passed through the door of the Physical Kids cottage like it was made of smoke. Eliot released Margo’s hands and they were spun in opposite directions and kids yelped and scattered as drink, books, and empty CD cases flew and bounced off the walls. Eliot grunted as he bounced with them and slid gracelessly down the wall, the faces of the amazed older students staring at him. He looked over at Margo, who was sitting against the opposite wall, dazed but giggling. He grinned at her and raised a showy, elegant hand.

 “TADA!”

 The applause began somewhere in the back of the room and then quickly spread as he and Margo were help up, dusted off, and checked over for wounds. A fourth year brought them smoky green drinks in martini glasses, and one sip let Eliot know that he and Margo were home.

 “Isn’t she cute?” A tall, lanky girl with bleached hair streaked purple asked a friend as several older girls surrounded Margo. “So tiny, like a baby deer!”

 Margo drained her glass, grabbed another from a tray as someone carried it past, and glared up at the girl with enough outraged body language to make her take a surprised step back.

 “Sweetie? I ain’t no fuckin’ Bambi!”

 One Year Later

 “Are we sure this isn’t some massive prank the third years aren’t pulling on us? It’s fucking freezing up here!”

 Eliot shook his head as he looked across the starlit campus of Brakebills. He and Margo were standing on the roof of the main building, a bottle of Johnnie Walker in his hand, two thick hanks of rope over Margo’s shoulder. While they had been living in the Physical Kids cottage for the last year, Dean Fogg had kept Eliot and Margo on a restricted program until the start of this most recent semester, and now, at nineteen and nearly twenty, they were the youngest first years in Brakebills history.

 “It’s the last part of the trials and if we don’t go through with it, we’re finished here. And by the way? Fuck that because I am not going back to Indiana!”

 “Okay, fine, God!” Margo hung onto Eliot’s arm for balance as she stripped off her high heels, then her pantyhose. Eliot unbuttoned his vest and set it aside, then his aubergine shirt and trousers, stripping until he was nude.

 “I better get these clothes back after whatever is supposed to happen happens. The trousers alone were $150!”

 “Give me a shot of that whiskey.” Margo stood naked before him and Eliot kept his gaze averted as he handed it over. She took a shot, grimaced, and handed it back. Eliot took a slug and then picked up the bowl of paints they’d brought to the roof with them. Eliot looked down at her as they stood facing each other, and then Margo nodded. Eliot dipped his fingers into the paint, drawing sigils on Margo’s face and shoulders, and then passed her the bowl. He closed his eyes as she drew vertical lines under his eyes and down his chest and shoulders before using one of the heavy hanks of ropes to bind his narrow wrists together. He did the same to her, working a bit awkwardly. They stood there, shivering, Eliot’s body long and lean and pale in the starlight, Margo’s darker and curvaceous.

 “What happens now?” Margo asked, and Eliot swallowed hard.

 “We have to reveal our innermost truth to each other. Bare our souls.”

 “I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you about myself that I haven’t already.” Margo picked up the bottle of scotch with her bound hands and took a long pull on it. Eliot watched her. “God, this is so stupid! We’re best friends . . . soul mates! I don’t know why Dean Fogg insisted we be partners when we already know each other’s truths!”

 “Maybe he knows something we don’t.” Eliot sighed. “Seems like he always has—like how he knew my mother used to be a student here and that the powers I have came from her.”

 “Shit! Really?”

 “Yeah. I used think there was something terribly wrong with me. But she knew all along what it was. She just never told me about any of it because she was afraid of my father. So was I. I guess it was that fear that kept her from calling Dean Fogg that day when I was fourteen—aka the worst day of my life.”

 “What happened?” Margo asked, looking up at him, and Eliot met her gaze.

 “I killed someone.”

 Margo’s eyes widened until Eliot could see his own reflection in them, a pallid face etched with stubble, dark curls tumbling down from their carefully coiffed positions and falling over his forehead. He felt tears build in his own eyes.

 “Please don’t hate me, Margo.”

 “I don’t! I swear, El! Tell me what happened.”

 “There was this boy. A big kid who lived on the farm down the road from us. He was—” Eliot’s mouth tightened. “He beat me up. So one day I was walking back from town, I’d gone to the general store for a soda and a Clark Bar because by then I was already very unhappy and eating my feelings at a professional level. And I saw him on the other side of the street. He saw me too, and he started crossing over. And there was this bus.” Eliot shook his head. “I barely thought the thought, Margo.”

 “Whammo?” She whispered.

 “Whammo.” Eliot nodded. “It was like he exploded. I knew almost instantly what had happened. What I’d done. Logan Kinnear died on impact, I got a nosebleed, and I never even got to finish my candy bar or drink my soda. I ran home—my mom helped me clean up and the whole thing was ruled as an accident. They said he must have been playing in the street. Not paying attention. But it was me, Margo. It was the first time I ever used my telekinesis, and someone died because of it.”

 Margo nodded, but the defensive, self-assured mask she wore all the time was nowhere to be seen. She looked like a frightened child.

 “My mother is a prostitute.” She said suddenly. “Or was—I don’t know if she’s alive or what. My grandparents raised me until I was about thirteen, but then they died. My grandmother got dementia and once she died, it was like my grandfather died from the inside out. He was gone a month later, and I went into foster care. It’s not a good place to be, El. A lot of the families either just want the money or easy pickings . . . someone they think won’t fight back. But I did. My grandparents didn’t have any idea about who my father was either, so I decided to start taking care of myself. That’s how I ended up getting involved in that bank robbery. I was the lookout.” She looked up at Eliot. “I know I act confident, but honestly? I don’t really have any idea who I am or where I came from.”

 Eliot slipped his arms around her and a moment later he felt the warmth of her arms around his as well.

 “Your ropes are gone.” He said, and Margo stepped back to look at him.

 “So are yours—oh!” Margo doubled over suddenly and Eliot reached out to her when pain streamed through his shoulders, his arms, his chest.

 “Margo—” Something was forcing him downward, making him smaller, and he cried out, grabbing at Margo, as they both pitched over the edge of the roof. He transformed in midair and then he was pumping his wings—his wings!—madly. He rose into the air, a sleek male Canada goose. Margo swept in beside him, also transformed, and as they raced to catch up with the rest of the first years, flying south. Eliot let the air currents guide him, freed of his guilt, his burden, and he honked joyfully at Margo as they flew away from Brakebills and into the night sky.

 One Year Later

 “El, wait up!”

 Eliot glanced over his shoulder as Margo ran along the sidewalk to catch up with him.

 “Christ, it’s like trying to outrun a giraffe!” She panted, and Eliot cocked a brow at her spike heels.

 “Maybe if you gave Daisy Duke her shoes back?”

 “Fuck you, they’re amazing and you’re jealous. So where are you hurrying off to?”

 “Dean Fogg is making me go meet one of the potentials and chaperone him to the exam room. I can’t believe I have to babysit!”

 “Can I come with you?”

 “You better not, the dean told me not to be late for—” He frowned and pulled a small placard from his vest pocket and glanced at it. “Quentin Coldwater. Have you ever heard a more absurd name?”

 “He’s probably some Manhattan hipster whose parents sent him to Young Shakespeare Camp and raised him on kale and wasabi peas.” Margo smirked, and Eliot put the card back in his pocket and pulled a pack of Merits from his trouser pocket, tapping it on his wrist as he rolled his eyes.

 “God. Just what I need . . . to play wet nurse to a wayward vegan!”

 “Mr. Waugh, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Dean Fogg strode past them both as he checked his pocketwatch, and Eliot made the cigarettes vanish with a flick of his hand.

 “On my way, Dean Fogg!” He got moving again, pausing only when the dean had vanished around the corner. He kissed Margo’s cheek.

 “I’ll be back in thirty, Bambi. Have a cocktail ready for me, something tells me I’ll need it!”

 “I will. And don’t call me Bambi!” She called after Eliot’s retreating form. His laughter streamed back at her over his shoulder, and Margo rolled her eyes as she headed for the Physical Kids cottage, knowing it would be the only reply she’d receive.

 Ten Months Later

 “Have you both considered this decision carefully? Not that it’s my job to talk you out of it.” Dean Fogg looked from Margo to Eliot, both of who stood in front of his desk, holding hands. They both looked haggard, exhausted, washed out. Eliot nodded.

 “Quentin is dead, Dean Fogg. Alice too . . . Penny lost his hands.”

 “But you defeated the Beast!” Dean Fogg countered, and Margo shook her head.”

 “It’s not a win for us. Our friends are dead. We can’t stay here.”

 “We’ve earned this. We’re tired, Dean Fogg . . . we’re tired and staying here would mean facing the ghosts of Alice and—and Quentin—around every fucking corner. We bested the monster.” Eliot pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long pull on it—he’d been in some stage of inebriation ever since he’d watched the Beast twist Alice’s head around on her shoulders before ripping Quentin’s throat out. Eliot had blacked out after that, but Margo and Penny, now minus his hands, told him that he’d gone after the Beast with a primal scream of rage, using his telekinesis to rip the demon literally to shreds. But that didn’t matter to Eliot. He wasn’t a hero. Quentin was still dead.

 “Now let us go.”

 “Very well.” Dean Fogg rounded his desk. “You realize that it’s very uncommon—almost unorthodox—to send students away from Brakebills in pairs?”

 Eliot looked down at Margo.

 “Both of us have been unorthodox students, Dean Fogg. So doesn’t that make this a perfect ending to our time here?” He asked, and the dean nodded.

 “I suppose it does.” He flexed his hands. “Are you ready?”

 “Just a second.” Margo touched Eliot’s cheek and her throat bobbed. Eliot mirrored her action.

 “Bye, Bambi.” He said softly, and Margo blinked away tears.

 “Try to remember me.” She said, and then both she and Eliot were borne up and away from Brakebills by the dean’s spell, to one of the dozen places where they sent mind-wiped magicians who were too broken to practice their craft anymore.

 Plaxcorp, the San Francisco office, Two Weeks Later

 “Hey, newbie!”

 Eliot turned from the break room’s coffee maker, where he was using the hot water setting on the Keurig to make himself a cup of tea. His manager, Gary Groff, a carelessly jovial man with a russet beard, stood in the doorway in one of his terrible sweater vests.

 “Yes, Mr. Groff?”

 “Got a job for you!” He stepped aside, and the most petite woman Eliot had ever seen walked into the room. She had long brunette hair, done up in a Japanese twist, and intelligent dark eyes that seemed to note everything in the room. Gary smiled.

 “Eliot, this is Margo Hanson. She’s new here and she’ll be working in your department. I was hoping you’d show her around. Margo, this is Eliot Waugh, one of our data wranglers here on the 39th floor.”

 Eliot set his tea mug down as Margo walked up to him. She barely came to his shoulder and her movements were lithe, graceful.

 Like a deer, Eliot thought to himself, and offered his hand.

 “Nice to meet you.”

 Margo’s painted lips twisted into a sardonic smile that Eliot responded to immediately—this one looked like she could even make data entry interesting.

 “Pleasure’s mine,” Margo replied, shaking his hand, and Gary nodded.

 “Well! I have other employees to terrorize. Think you two will be okay on your own?”

 Eliot looked down at Margo, who smiled widely. Something mischievous danced in her eyes, and for a moment, Eliot swore he tasted some strange and exotic flavor on his tongue, something rich and smoky—something magical.

 “Oh!” Margo nodded. “I think I can guarantee it.” 

FIN 

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

                                    Lee Taeil, who is known by no other name;                                               ��         a 26 year old son of Acat.                                                  He is a tattoo artist at Taste of Ink.

FC NAME/GROUP: Lee Tae-Il (Taeil); Block B 
 CHARACTER NAME: N/A
 AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: September 24, 1990; 27
 PLACE OF BIRTH: Seoul, South Korea
 OCCUPATION: Tattoo Artist at Taste of Ink, Tattoo and Piercing Parlour HEIGHT: 167 cm (5’6”)
 WEIGHT: 65 kg (125.6 lbs) DEFINING FEATURES: Taeil has multiple tattoos over his body, many people will see him with the same tattoos for a day before noticing a new one he gets.

He has a large ape head on the back of his neck, a diamond with the phrase ‘Reach for the star. There is nothing to fear’ across his chest, 'Qing Kiss’ across his knuckles, a large owl holding swords and a shield (with the illuminati eye in the centre of the shield) on his abdomen with the tips of the wings reaching the front of his shoulders and various other tattoos on the tops of his hands (Oni head on the right hand, black panther with a flaming helmet on the left) and arms as well as a few on his legs.

He is easy to recognize by his tattoos, making it hard for him to get out of trouble. He also has a few piercings; he has normal lobe piercings as well as a eyebrow piercing on his left eyebrow and industrial piercings through the top of the helix (one on the left, two on the right.) He rarely has his industrial and eyebrow piercings in and only wears his earrings in his lobes. 


PERSONALITY: Taeil is a very calm and collected person, never one to really blurt out or interrupt anyone unless there is a reason to. He is generally nice and open to others around him, enjoying to talk to others about his multitude of tattoos and his works.

Sometimes he can get very quiet and almost intimidating despite his size; his voice being one of the reasons. His voice can be very loud when he’s excited or enraged, but overall he’s kind of quiet. When he’s busy with work he will stay completely focused and silent; easily annoyed when others interrupt his peace.

At first he may look like he’s bad news from his physical appearance, but behind all the tattoos Taeil is a very nice guy who has an equal love of tattoos and social gatherings. If you end up getting into a fight with him, you’ll probably end up being drowned out by his voice. Make sure not to tick him off either, because have mercy if he has something in his hands. He can throw knives just as easily than throwing a steady punch. 
 HISTORY: Ever since he could remember, Taeil knew he was gifted in some way. It took a while to eventually find out what it was, but he was never too worried about the outcome. As a child, he had a vivid imagination, wanting to create and draw out all the beautiful pictures and thoughts he saw in his mind for the world to see. Sadly, he never knew his parents, only his grandparents who brought him up with vague memories of the past. His grandmother, which he loved and adored, bought him a small notepad and some pencils so he could doodle as a way to express himself.

Slowly as he grew, so did the collection of sketch pads and random binders and books of his drawings and sketches filled up most of the room on his shelves; various drawing tools scattered across his bedroom floor. No matter how complex or detailed his thoughts or visions where, he could draw it out on paper as if he was printing it straight from his mind.

His school life was okay, he had a few friends he would hang around and talk to. He wasn’t too keen on being the 'social student’ but as long as people respected him, he was okay. His marks throughout weren’t the best, making his grandfather upset that he’d spend more time on his sketching rather than his homework.

Ever since his grandparents took him in, they were supportive of him. As he grew older, his grandfather put pressure for him to go into the military or into a job that could get him good money. His grandmother on the other hand, told him he could do whatever he wanted. If he could put his heart into his work, he could always have his way. Taeil’s parents were a mystery, but his grandmother told him he was exactly like his father; He was artistic and always blooming with ideas. One day, he promised to go find his father. During his first year of high school his grandmother passed away, leaving him in the hands of his stricter grandfather. He was very emotionally tired and drained as well as his grandfather, making hard for him to focus on school.

Imagination and fantasy filled the void where his heartache remained, bringing him into a better mindset overtime following the death of his grandmother. There was only silence and the occasional chatter with his grandfather; silence slowly spacing them apart. After his grandfather found out he was getting very low marks in the first term, his grandfather finally decided to do what was best for Taeil and his future; stop his creativity.

Taeil wasn’t one to get mad or enraged early, but when he arrived later that evening to the flaming pile of paper and sketchbooks in the backyard he finally lost it. He put up with his grandfather enough that he grabbed everything he possibly could and left. He didn’t care if that was his only family left, he’d rather have his art than a man who only saw Taeil as his reflection.

He barely had any financial support other than the small change he had lying around in his wallet. Something had to be done, so he resorted to stealing so he could survive in the busy city. It was rough, barely having anything to eat or a place to stay. Just like a vagabond he had to constantly change his places so he wouldn’t be caught. He got into plenty of fights with men twice his size, causing him to get some serious injuries. For some odd reason, he wouldn’t feel anything at all; small pinpricks and maybe a slight throbbing sensation. He couldn’t understand why at first, he shrugged it off as just a 'natural thing’ he had.

During the winter, it got hard for him to travel and scavenge around. He had injured himself multiple times, not knowing how painful it was when it felt like nothing to him. At one point, he ended up passing out from the cold in an alley only to wake up in a small tattoo shop on the outskirts of Seoul. He was brought in by the shop owner, telling him that he would watch out for him as long as he worked for him in return when he was healthy.

After months of rest and hospital care, he got used to the shop. His mind finally began to bloom artistically once again after having a void there for so long. He watched the different artists work on their clients from the side, slowly longing to use the body as a canvas. Taeil decided in good intentions to return and finish high school so he could go to school specifically for tattooing. Most of his days were spent studying and doing homework while his evenings were for cleaning the shop up.

At the age of 23, he finally became a certified artist; creating beautiful designs and pieces on others that were distinct to his art style. He learned overtime the patience and steadiness needed for his new job, which he naturally complied to and perfected his skills in a few years. As well, he had many tattoos done by his colleagues or himself. It was almost like a coming of age for him as well as a source of his pride.

Only was it after he finished a beautiful angel tattoo for a client, was he directed to another artist of god-like skills. They mentioned he had a son, but he was never around. She also mentioned how close in appearance he looked to the man, joking that he could be his son. The mysterious woman gave him a black business card with the name of a business and its location, leaving him to process everything slowly in his overly saturated state. He decided to pack up his things and travel to that exact place to see if the man could help him seek answers. And maybe, just maybe, reunite with his father.

PANTHEON: Mayan
 CHILD OF: Acat
 POWERS: * High pain tolerance; making him last longer in a fight or when he has to escape when in a very bad physical state. * Steady hands/nerves; Makes him more focused on his movements and thoughts when in sticky situations. Comes in handy as well when doing his tattooing. * Artistic Ability; Mostly used when he’s doing his tattoos. It can come in handy when he needs to sketch out a physical image of someone or in times when he can’t just describe what he’s trying to explain. 
STRENGTHS: •He is decently in shape, making so that despite his small stature, he can easily still fight someone if needed. •His ability to keep his hands steady as well as his nerves play important roles in tattooing as well as in combat or any other scenario when he need to stand his ground. Once he gets his nerves squared away and his hands from shaking, he’s completely aware of his surroundings. •Having a high pain tolerance makes it easier for him to sit through excruciating amounts of pain compared to his counterparts. 


WEAKNESSES: •Even though he can keep his nerves at bay, that won’t stop his mind from snapping and releasing his true emotions or intentions. •Having a high pain tolerance can be good, but it can also be very bad. Since he may not be able to feel things right away, it could cause him to make his conditions worsen if he doesn’t pay attention. As well, it can also mean he has a certain limit that if it goes over, it could be very dangerous to his body. •If he tries to steady himself and/or overwork his nerves and mind too much, he becomes very weak and unable to focus; causing him to have fainting spells or to fully pass out from exhaustion.