[ The room (‘one with a window. ‘ He’d said. ‘One you won’t miss using for a long time. It won’t be safe to go in there for months.’) stinks of death.
The construct is just meat now, and while they’ve kept it frozen while they can the sad truth is that it’s needed to be out in the open for far too long for him to study it. For him to prepare. It’s rotting, and fast. The plants, potted ones (‘that’s why I need a window. They move toward the sun. That’s intent. I can use it.’), are rotted now too, the will to survive stripped out of them and used as fuel for this ridiculous shit he’s trying to pull. And then there’s the blood, what seems like everyone’s but his own.
They have Sypha’s still, largely unused, a jar containing a cotton ball soaked with it amoung all of the other horrible things. (The room he’s in is disturbingly similar to the forgemaster’s workshop, all upsetting little things in jars and sheets and sheets of writing in ink and charcoal and ash mixed with saltwater and grave dirt and Alucard’s blood). It’s time to make use of it. ]
Alucard, you’re on your own. Don’t fuck it up.
[ And with that and one last spell, that tether, the vampire is released. And it’s time to do something stupid. It’s time to do at least three of the things, in fact, that he’s meant to never do.
Don’t mess with forgemastery.
Don’t use blood for spells.
Don’t do evil shit, like controlling people’s bodies. (He’s already broken that one a lot today.)
He has Sypha’s blood as the medium, the rotting remains of the construct as a focus, and a spell that he could never summon the intent to use. (He’s used a lot of spells that he could never summon the intent to use, today. Alucard’s determination to save Sypha is a force that could move mountains.)
And he has a fuck of a lot of faith in Sypha.
He translates his thoughts into runes, dampening the cotton ball with saltwater to write them in Sypha’s blood. Using the hands of Sypha Belnades, I will take control of the spells drawn by the man who made this puppet..
It shouldn’t work. He can’t form any intention to do that, even seeing it written. He knows too well that it’s impossible. He can’t imagine himself achieving such a thing, and so he never can achieve it. It’s a fucking annoying irony - his fey nature should make him a font of magic, but he can’t do shit with it.
But Sypha can. Sypha can steal the spell from him. Sypha can see herself controlling the place’s defenses, surely. And she probably can’t hear him, but he speaks anyway. ]
no subject
The construct is just meat now, and while they’ve kept it frozen while they can the sad truth is that it’s needed to be out in the open for far too long for him to study it. For him to prepare. It’s rotting, and fast. The plants, potted ones (‘that’s why I need a window. They move toward the sun. That’s intent. I can use it.’), are rotted now too, the will to survive stripped out of them and used as fuel for this ridiculous shit he’s trying to pull. And then there’s the blood, what seems like everyone’s but his own.
They have Sypha’s still, largely unused, a jar containing a cotton ball soaked with it amoung all of the other horrible things. (The room he’s in is disturbingly similar to the forgemaster’s workshop, all upsetting little things in jars and sheets and sheets of writing in ink and charcoal and ash mixed with saltwater and grave dirt and Alucard’s blood). It’s time to make use of it. ]
Alucard, you’re on your own. Don’t fuck it up.
[ And with that and one last spell, that tether, the vampire is released. And it’s time to do something stupid. It’s time to do at least three of the things, in fact, that he’s meant to never do.
Don’t mess with forgemastery.
Don’t use blood for spells.
Don’t do evil shit, like controlling people’s bodies. (He’s already broken that one a lot today.)
He has Sypha’s blood as the medium, the rotting remains of the construct as a focus, and a spell that he could never summon the intent to use. (He’s used a lot of spells that he could never summon the intent to use, today. Alucard’s determination to save Sypha is a force that could move mountains.)
And he has a fuck of a lot of faith in Sypha.
He translates his thoughts into runes, dampening the cotton ball with saltwater to write them in Sypha’s blood. Using the hands of Sypha Belnades, I will take control of the spells drawn by the man who made this puppet..
It shouldn’t work. He can’t form any intention to do that, even seeing it written. He knows too well that it’s impossible. He can’t imagine himself achieving such a thing, and so he never can achieve it. It’s a fucking annoying irony - his fey nature should make him a font of magic, but he can’t do shit with it.
But Sypha can. Sypha can steal the spell from him. Sypha can see herself controlling the place’s defenses, surely. And she probably can’t hear him, but he speaks anyway. ]
All yours.
[ All of it. All of it. Hers. ]