Open Chronicles Late Night Rat Problem

[Pomrick Bloomsfield]

"Idon'tknowbutitcan'tbegooood!" Pomrick squealed.

As his own chaotic energy merged with that of the rod, those poor souls would see intermittent flashes of Pomrick's saucer-eyed face and Spear Thistle's erratic hair. Both screaming profusely.

Besides inflicting nightmares of himself upon others, something strange happened to the lights around near Pomrick and the pixie. The lights grew tangible; physical; like vines growing out of the floor, merging with the already rampant growth behind them, lashing over them like illuminary webs. Pomrick flailed his hands to find release, but that all slingshotted more webs by his misplaced power through the corridor, entangling other, screaming students.

Pomrick kept screaming and thrashing in tandem with them: as much of an inflictor as a victim. Only the piff-paff of soft slippers broke through this cacophony . . .

The Spear Thistle Fairy
Vaezhasar Drakspae

 

[Vaezhasar Drakspae]

Pomrick Bloomsfield
The Spear Thistle Fairy


The octarine nimbus writhing about the sorcerer's person unmade each luminous cord at its merest caress, not severed, not deflected, but rendered unto absolute nullity, as though the very concept of their existence had been politely but firmly rescinded from reality's ledger. Vaezhasar's staff described a contemptuous arc through the dimness, its bifurcated crown intercepting the suspended scepter. The collision produced results less reminiscent of combat than of a hammer meeting cheap tin: the enchanted implement warped (as metal tends to do when subjected to great force), and temporarily surrendered its damaged body gravity's dominion.

Before the scepter could levitate itself off the ground again, three floating, crystaline eyeballs materialized just above Vaezhasar's head, each a perfect sphere of faceted glass housing what appeared to be a functional eyeball of distinctly non-human provenance. The eyes deployed their payload in unison, blasting the scepter back to the ground with concentrated beams of screaming not-quite-green-not-quite-purple energy. Rainbow lightning crackled where the beams had made contact with the scepter, then the scepter, having exhausted itself, finally yielded and went inert.

A gesture, economical, precise, and the corridor's geometry acquired a new feature. The translucent enclosure materialized around both Pomrick and Spear Thistle with the abruptness of a dropped portcullis, its octarine facets humming with a frequency just on the edge of audibility. The construct possessed neither warmth nor malice; it simply was, as indifferent to protest as a mountain to the exhortations of the wind. Its interior remained blessedly vacant of furnishing, yet its boundaries proved obstinately corporeal.

The sorcerer's eyes contracted to calculating slits. At this unspoken editorial, the luminous prison contracted with interminable deliberation, compressing itself about Pomrick's frame until the man found himself spatially prevented from executing even the most rudimentary convulsions. A mercy, truly, given the alternative: with latitude for the sort of epileptic gymnastics presently threatening to manifest, Pomrick would undoubtedly transform his face into a tenderized cutlet against the adamantine surfaces surrounding him.


The sorcerer's attention pivoted toward the diminutive figure perched atop the immobilized man's cranium.
His gaze affixed her. Not wholesomely. Anything but wholesomely, really.

"Mollify him or,"

The thumb he drew across his throat required no philological elaboration.

 

[The Spear Thistle Fairy]

Mollify? Spear Thistle thought to herself. What does that even mean????

The panicked pixie couldn’t make sense of what was being asked of her or if the startlingly large gesture meant that he was going to kill her or if he wanted her to kill noble featherface. Not favoring death in any regard, Spear Thistle flew for the nearest window.

“Your sacrifice won’t be forgotten, featherface!” She shouted, barraging out a chaos of spells to cover her escape. But this last act of magic was a bridge too far. Spear Thistle was quickly overcome with lightheadedness, and then uncontioustess as the Sidhe tumbled short of the window and into a potted plant.

Of the spells she let off, one did find purchase however. A stray sleep spell, which hit Pomrick cleanly on the face.