A flower.
She brought the suggestion of Surveyor Bloodthorn very vividly into her mind, along with other parts of their conversation, which she had not stopped thinking of, nor had mentioned to anyone else, almost as a testament of her iron will to excel. She could not bring herself to, however, killing the beautiful, snowy lotus blooms that adorned the garden of her mentor's estate. Her love for them was deep and the meaning behind them sacred.
Thus the vast chamber which had been offered to her when she first moved to Magister Bloodthorn's estate, once void of any hint that could be characterised as a personal element of decoration and taste was now surrounded by small, quite young pots of coiling thorned twigs, leading to the deep red blossom of the enchanting, yet ever so common rose. The clay containers stood far from the windows, which allowed golden light to reach the cold walls. Their purpose, after all, was not to grow strong and prosper. They were meant to wither away.
The young apprentice was standing above the marble table hosting five of the pots, her glistening eyes squinting as her alabaster locks fell like a drape to the sides of her features, casting a menacing shadow. Her gaze was far from predatory, though it was not pleasant weither; like a ghost, she lingered, hesitant on her next actions. The dark glove slid with ease from her cold fingers, which soon fell to the parchment placed in front of her. It was clear that she was taking care of it, almost as if it was sacred. The tips of her fingers caressed the words, while her eyelids fell, almost as if she wanted to memorize the incantation. Visualise it, with the power of her mind.
And what if she attempted to cast, without counting on the aid of pronnouncing the words written in Eredun? Surely, a little challenge - a little challenge could not hurt.
Mindless, echoed the voice in her head, scoldingly so. But the voice was not her own. It came in the tone of many.
Properly then, she wished to whisper, but the only words to escape Celysiel's lips were those of the incantation, as she focused on following the intructions she had received. The spell may had been characterised simple, in the level of a novice, though as she uttered the worlds, the youth found herself in great awe only by the promise of power that they delivered. It was only a matter of seconds, perhaps less than that, for the emotion to immobilize her, make her lose control of her concentration. But that little was enough. The channeling never came, nor did the crimson petals wane. It was only words, hanging in the air.
The apprentice's stiff fingers gently curled a few times, as if to conjure the warmth they so desperately needed, but to no avail. It did not discourage her, for it was merely an excuse to stall after her first failure. Even though the mistake was her own.
For once more, she engaged to the second attempt, but this time, nothing covered the words of the incantation, even if they were now etched in her mind, for the fright they had brought. Celysiel took a deep breath, doing her best not to remember. Not to allow this curious mind wander further, break the limits of the concentration she needed.
This time, she was prepared; as the words were uttered, her infernal gaze deviated from the parchment to eye the bloom that she was targetting. Celysiel's fingers lightly curled, as if they were dancing, as she uttered the command loudly. The powers were channeled successfully, though if earlier she was uncertain about the guidelines she had received, in order to draw the shadow from her fel pool, the confusion was suddenly cleared.
For it came instictively.
The affliction fell, as the humming of power echoed in the young one's ears, though it could have always been her imagination. Shaken, not by the effect of the spell, but by her own success, the girl slowly lowered her hand and leaned closer to the table hosting the pots, focusing on the sanguine bloom which had become the target of her experimenting. Though there it was, healthy, magnificent.
It was just as the apprentice's features formed a frown that change finally came. Very lightly, one of the petals of the outter rim began to shiver, only to soon be despatched, very gently following the sway of the atmosphere's torrents, eventually reaching the soil. Celysiel blinked, finally drawing closer. A rose, linked to the twigs, was quite a sturdy flower, yet the disease was spreading, making the blossom limp and lean inwards, as life was abandoning it slowly.
Encouraged by the effects of the spell, the apprentice now turned her attention to the second bloom in the pot, connected with the first through the entwined, thin, thorny branches of the plant. The fact that she had succeeded once did not mean, however, that she could bring the desired effects a second time as well. Surprisingly, to achieve the malady a second time. The first two attempts were failed just because of the excitement that Celysiel's success had given her, along with a mild hint of euphoria. The following three were faced with the difficulty of confusion, when it came to drawing the shadow powers, so to inflict damage on the bloom. As much as she tried, the channeling was cut, for the source, the drawing, were quite poor.
On the sixth attempt, however, the rose finally lost one of its petals. At that point, Celysiel stood very lightly sweaty, with unruly strands flying odd her mane, though the sight of creeping decay softened her features, releasing the tension from her body. She observed the effects of the incantation care fully, as the second blood came to join the first in its fate; perhaps slowly, but surely, they were both dying.
It was just as she was about to turn away, on another pot, when a small detail caught her eye; small, but significant. As the affliction was spreading on the blooms, letting them wither way, dull and yellowing from the festering disease within, the thorns of the very stems themselves were softening and curving, as a line of brown was spreading on the green of the twigs, all the way down to the strong branch. The plant would die. Not fast, perhaps, for the youth's attempts were not as great as they were meant to, but with the passing of days, it would be nothing more than a greying pile of rotten wood. It was dying, but there was a sense of satisfaction to be taken from it.
Celysiel slowly drew away, her shaking hand reaching for the glove placed by the parchment, a glove she so desperately needed. A memory still lingered in her mind. Of the hand as it made the spirals of fel energy dance to the tune of its channeling. The desire to make these burning, chartreuse tethers dance into the end of her fingers instead. The desire for it to be a demon's soul.
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