[When Fugo began studying magic, he also began a journal. He's kept meticulous track of the spells he's been taught and what happens when he casts them. He makes a small check mark next to entries that are a success, while failures get a red x.
There have been a lot of entries with red marks lately. The farther he gets away from Octeuril, the lower his success rate becomes. He's tried to push through it; the Coven's teachers have made it very clear that Witches, especially those without Bonds, must practice their craft. Otherwise the magic inside in them will build up inside of them, until it literally explodes.]
[Lately, he's been itchy. No, that's not the word. There is no word for it. His skin tingles and prickles and crawls. His whole self feels like the shell for something else that has been outgrown. It's a suffocating, claustrophobic sensation. Most days, especially the days when he's practiced, he can push the feeling away. He hasn't been able to consistently practice lately. His magic sputters out and disappears without warning, only to suddenly come back with full force. He's been manic. He's been irritable. It's been bad. But the storm has passed. He can practice again. It will get better-- it has to.
It has to.]
[This was his idea: brew a pot of warming potion in the kitchen it, bottle it, distribute it amongst the refugees. It's a very basic alchemic spell, one of the first he ever learned. It has never failed. This is the reality: the sizzling, foul-smelling, acid green concoction on their stove is not safe for anyone. It's dissolved the wooden he was using to stir it with; the piece he has left is scorched and smoking in his white-knuckled grip. Frankly, he has concerns about the cast iron pot it's simmering in.]
God fucking damnit. God-- [Frustrated, he drops the spoon into the pot and turns the stove off. On top of everything else, his concoction is thick and viscous; even as the spoon burns and dissolves, it sinks slowly below the surface.] --fucking damnit, you stupid bastard.
[He scratches the back of his neck. It itches. Of course, even though the spell is too strong, it's far from enough. He'll have to try something else.]
sometime in december - action
There have been a lot of entries with red marks lately. The farther he gets away from Octeuril, the lower his success rate becomes. He's tried to push through it; the Coven's teachers have made it very clear that Witches, especially those without Bonds, must practice their craft. Otherwise the magic inside in them will build up inside of them, until it literally explodes.]
[Lately, he's been itchy. No, that's not the word. There is no word for it. His skin tingles and prickles and crawls. His whole self feels like the shell for something else that has been outgrown. It's a suffocating, claustrophobic sensation. Most days, especially the days when he's practiced, he can push the feeling away. He hasn't been able to consistently practice lately. His magic sputters out and disappears without warning, only to suddenly come back with full force. He's been manic. He's been irritable. It's been bad. But the storm has passed. He can practice again. It will get better-- it has to.
It has to.]
[This was his idea: brew a pot of warming potion in the kitchen it, bottle it, distribute it amongst the refugees. It's a very basic alchemic spell, one of the first he ever learned. It has never failed. This is the reality: the sizzling, foul-smelling, acid green concoction on their stove is not safe for anyone. It's dissolved the wooden he was using to stir it with; the piece he has left is scorched and smoking in his white-knuckled grip. Frankly, he has concerns about the cast iron pot it's simmering in.]
God fucking damnit. God-- [Frustrated, he drops the spoon into the pot and turns the stove off. On top of everything else, his concoction is thick and viscous; even as the spoon burns and dissolves, it sinks slowly below the surface.] --fucking damnit, you stupid bastard.
[He scratches the back of his neck. It itches. Of course, even though the spell is too strong, it's far from enough. He'll have to try something else.]