Post by TEAGAN TEAGAN TEAGAN TEAGAN TE on Dec 27, 2010 21:52:56 GMT -5
Teagan escaped from Lucre one night in October, and she patiently waited for a good opportunity to arise for her revenge--she didn't want him connecting her with her animagus, and she needed time to come up with a successful strategy. She wanted to simply summon him with an accio in broad daylight and merely watch as he sizzled into dust under the violent rays of light, but would it end his undeath too quickly? Or was he so strong as a vampire that he could resist her summoning by sheer monstrous strength? Then, he could recognize the spell and possibly connect it with her style. Naturally, he'd try to do away with her before she could get revenge on him.
And so, the end of October passed with the cool winds of Halloween.
November came and with it, nothing good. She dedicated herself to work and runes, occasionally carving a few new shapes into her metal chain. It still had minor defects (such as singeing the user's skin like a Florida sunburn), but it neutralized designated magics pretty well. As soon as she fixed the whole melting flesh issue, she could really test its limits.
And thus came December. Darren sent her a Furbie (useless) for Christmas, but her other associates were too wise to bother. She traveled to Britain for a week, hunting down this ridiculous plant called the Biting Belladonna. It only grew in areas of concentrated magic, and its blood-colored berries caused hallucinogens and delirium while its two-inch thorns pierced and cut the flesh of perilous pickers. She needed it for a potion--apparently, the higher-ups saw her as capable of brewing the Drink of Despair. It was a nasty piece of work, but it'd be a satisfactory final defense against any thieves coming after their precious object. Thieves alone would be undone, but, as a pair, they might fair.
January was just as frosty as dreary December, if not more so. The school threw a party. She was still recovering from a poison at work--it left some ungainly black mark on her right shoulder, and hurt like a son of a bitch. For a little while longer, she was on "vacation," trying to not go insane and also to brew that precious drought.
She walked silently down to the graveyard--or, as silently as one could, given the meek inch of snow powdering the grounds. Even a silencio had its limitations. She meekly closed the rusty gate behind her.
Considering the foot of snow surrounding the graveyard and the even larger drifts, Teagan supposed someone had cared enough for the grounds to sweep away the plethora of tiny ice crystals. Perhaps there was an invisible grounds-keeper she'd never met in all of her visits to Salazar's crypt. At any rate, it was around midnight--she'd just eaten lunch--and not a soul was in sight. Well, nothing more corporeal than a whisper or flickering shadow here or there. They weren't even true ghosts.
The Monolayre tightened her ruby lips against the frost and neared. A tribute to the weather, all of her outermost clothing--boots, snow pants, coat, gloves, and hat--had been turned white.
She wasn't at her best in the cold, but that didn't mean she would throw in the towel so easily. Even her hair was white.
It was as if she constantly anticipated a battle...
She did.
Where would the best bones be? Teagan wondered mutely, red-violet eyes scanning over the crypt like one might the text in a book. Old brittle bones are best for potions, while fresh flesh will give it poor notions.
And so, the end of October passed with the cool winds of Halloween.
November came and with it, nothing good. She dedicated herself to work and runes, occasionally carving a few new shapes into her metal chain. It still had minor defects (such as singeing the user's skin like a Florida sunburn), but it neutralized designated magics pretty well. As soon as she fixed the whole melting flesh issue, she could really test its limits.
And thus came December. Darren sent her a Furbie (useless) for Christmas, but her other associates were too wise to bother. She traveled to Britain for a week, hunting down this ridiculous plant called the Biting Belladonna. It only grew in areas of concentrated magic, and its blood-colored berries caused hallucinogens and delirium while its two-inch thorns pierced and cut the flesh of perilous pickers. She needed it for a potion--apparently, the higher-ups saw her as capable of brewing the Drink of Despair. It was a nasty piece of work, but it'd be a satisfactory final defense against any thieves coming after their precious object. Thieves alone would be undone, but, as a pair, they might fair.
January was just as frosty as dreary December, if not more so. The school threw a party. She was still recovering from a poison at work--it left some ungainly black mark on her right shoulder, and hurt like a son of a bitch. For a little while longer, she was on "vacation," trying to not go insane and also to brew that precious drought.
She walked silently down to the graveyard--or, as silently as one could, given the meek inch of snow powdering the grounds. Even a silencio had its limitations. She meekly closed the rusty gate behind her.
Considering the foot of snow surrounding the graveyard and the even larger drifts, Teagan supposed someone had cared enough for the grounds to sweep away the plethora of tiny ice crystals. Perhaps there was an invisible grounds-keeper she'd never met in all of her visits to Salazar's crypt. At any rate, it was around midnight--she'd just eaten lunch--and not a soul was in sight. Well, nothing more corporeal than a whisper or flickering shadow here or there. They weren't even true ghosts.
The Monolayre tightened her ruby lips against the frost and neared. A tribute to the weather, all of her outermost clothing--boots, snow pants, coat, gloves, and hat--had been turned white.
She wasn't at her best in the cold, but that didn't mean she would throw in the towel so easily. Even her hair was white.
It was as if she constantly anticipated a battle...
She did.
Where would the best bones be? Teagan wondered mutely, red-violet eyes scanning over the crypt like one might the text in a book. Old brittle bones are best for potions, while fresh flesh will give it poor notions.