The Water's Edge
ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ |
| ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ |
❤︎❤︎❤︎
𝕿𝖍𝖊 observatory was designed to look outward towards the endless dark waters, but to observe what precisely? The answer to that was anyone’s guess. The water's edge was a space tred by those that wanted to meet this monster or auspicious sign. In the observatory there was no fourth wall, the eastern wall was partially open. No door, only a final, elegant archway, carved with the Roman numeral VII on its capstone, led to a rugged outdoor space. Past the archway, only a short set of stairs and a narrow path that meandered along a cliffside. The sound of a piano from the observatory would fade as the howling wind overtook any semblance of melody. Here nature took back what was hers.
Along this path, the grandeur of the Augury Cloister gave way to something far older, far less refined. Where land met black waters, the world felt thinner. The storm-lashed ocean stretched into endless grey, the water in the distant below roiled with ceaseless fury. The cliff’s edge offered no railing, no protection, only slick, moss-covered stones that sloped treacherously toward a sheer drop. Far below, jagged rocks jutted up like hungry teeth, waiting. The air smelled of salt and something metallic, something far displaced from the perfumed air of the Augury. It was as if this place was hungry and as if those who ambled here had walked into the jaws of a beast.
Craggy grass and wiry weeds lined the unmarked path, as though nature had attempted to reclaim this space and hide this path. The muddy trail ran along the northern façade of the Cloister, offering glimpses through arched windows into the grand ballroom beyond. The ballroom was the heart of the nuptial celebration, chandelier lights flickering like distant stars through the glass. Music and laughter filtered faintly through, made ghostly by distance and sea wind. This was supposed to be a celebration, but for one to come here, those preferred to remain detached.
No service here. The house elves busied themselves with hospitality and culinary industry. None would heed your call, not over the whipping winds and the sounds of chatter and music that filled the venue.
Midway along the dirt path, at what might once have been a ritual center point, the stone underfoot narrowed to a natural anomaly, a perfectly carved vertical fissure in the cliff face shaped like the eye of a needle. Though it looked as if a strong wind might seal it shut, the aperture was just wide enough for a person to pass through, if they dared. It led somewhere. Or perhaps, it merely swallowed things whole. In truth, an observer could tell, it led to the sea but there was no means to return for one that might survive a fatal drop.
Some stories should never be told...
The Water's Edge
Arrived from the Observation Room
Aamon stepped out of the Observation Room and into the bite of coastal air. The salty air slapped him in the face, like he told a woman that her outfit did in fact make her look fat because she was fat. The stone underfoot was damp, weather-worn, and treacherously uneven. Three shallow stone steps led from the Observation Room to a craggy path that clung to the cliffside like an afterthought. No railing. No warding. Just the kind of scenic death trap the Augury seemed to favor.
Aamon paused at the threshold, glancing down. The sea was a fury of slate and white, crashing into the black rock below like it bore a grudge. The view was stunning. Poetic even. But there was an undercurrent to this place, which was also admittedly poetic. A tension. This cliff had once been ceremonial ground. And not the good kind.
They used to throw people into the waters from here. Maidens. Virgins. Servants who talked back. The cliff had a history, and it wasn’t quaint. The Augury had always been a place of prophecy, but there was a time when magic came with a price. The tithe was in blood.
Aamon exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to shake the feeling crawling up his spine. He wasn't superstitious, but he was also not stupid. Places remembered things. And this one? This one remembered blood. But that also meant that this place was used to such things, accepting even. What would one more sacrifice to the gods really do but quell the hungry waters for a day?
“Right,” he muttered, squinting at the path as he remembered the large picture windows from the ballroom that looked out onto the sea. He would be exposed. So Aamon did what a reasonable person would do, he ducked out of sight of the large picture windows, almost half-crawling as he cast his spell. He drew his wand and flicked it low, dragging the tip along the slick stone in a long, casual arc. “Lubricus.”
A faint shimmer passed over the rock where Aamon walked was nearly invisible, but treacherously effective. A thin, magical sheen would coat the path behind him, just enough to make any hurried follower regret their life choices. The stones wouldn’t look suspicious. Just… inconvenient. Dangerously so.
Aamon didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Let Campbell figure it out the hard way.Magical Action: Lubricus
By the time he reached the door again, his footsteps were silent and his expression neutral, composed. He was going to seek out Matthew Campbell. By now, Matt and likely Nabi had likely breeched the hearth and had arrived to the Augury. Before they settled into some sort of social dynamic, he was going to peel the duo apart.
Aamon adjusted his collar and stretched his jaw, making sure his mandible sat just so. He wanted to ensure that he looked indifferent, no fear, no joy, simply business. But beneath the perceived calm, there was satisfaction.
So Aamon would leave the cliff's edge, leaving the cliff no less beautiful. Just a bit more unforgiving. He would seek out Matthew Campbell, pry from from Nabi's grip and send him over the edge.
Not posting until other users have interfaced in threads so they can see him pass (if relevant).Returning to the Observation Room
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Water's Edge
Moderation
It was, all things considered, it a rather awkward confession: Aamon had lubricated the cliffside in the hopes that Matthew Campbell might accidentally plummet to his untimely demise. His plan was childish and naive. If Matthew simply slipped off the slide of a cliff, like some cartoonish caricature, then he would get the girl, be down an enemy and his year two would go smoothly.
Murder, perhaps, but the method was particularly roundabout. A simple shove would have sufficed, true. Quicker, more efficient. But that would require intent. Deliberate motion. Eye contact. The messy human cost of seeing betrayal bloom in someone’s face, be it confusion, rage, or the realization that they had, in fact, greatly underestimated Aamon Athanatos.
No, Aamon preferred his violence with a touch more plausible deniability. Slippery surfaces. Shoddy footwear. Those damn crocs would be the death of him, literally. A bit of misfortune that just so happened to align with his deepest, most unspoken wishes.
Was it murder if gravity was the one to pull the trigger?
No, it was a tragic accident. Aamon was a fan of passive murder. Accidents that he might have contributed to, but it was not his fault.
Roll for Success in Lubricating the Cliffs.
Roll: 16 Success
Some stories should never be told...
The Water's Edge
Aamon Athanatos wrote: 20 Jul 2025, 23:45 Aamon Athanatos slinked back into the Observation Room with the air of a boy with a plan. Not a good plan. In fact, it was a terrible plan. But a plan none-the-less, if that plan mostly involved brooding, elaborate passive aggression, and even more passive murder. The Slytherin's thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on the ever-persistent annoyance that was @Matthew Campbell, self-appointed rival and walking charity case of the magical world. Aamon had been plotting, quietly, of course, as was tradition, Campbell's murder.
So naturally, Aamon forgot something rather important. Namely, the dangerously slick trail of magically-enhanced stone he himself had left behind. A subtle trap, a deliciously clever inconvenience meant for Matthew’s unsuspecting shoes. Not Aamon's, but he had to carefully trek back across the slick stone, which he did with care. Returning to the Observation Room was the easy part. Once inside the Observation Room, with that open seventh archway, he moved as if it was safe to do so. But there were warnings about the seventh, warnings he should have heeded. His footfalls assuming a safe, dry surface, which the floor in the Observation Room was. The problem was the soles of his shoes, now slick from magic.
But as fate would have it, the gods of irony had a keen sense of comedic timing. When he believed himself safe, he was actually at the most risk.
Aamon took three quick steps, confident, distracted, elegant, and then the ground vanished beneath him. He slipped. He slid. He fell. He landed on his ass. There was no grace in it, no poise. Just a startled yelp and the world spinning sideways. He crashed backwards through the open portal like a sack of cursed laundry, arms flailing, coattails tangled, wand slipping from his fingers. He landed hard on his back, legs flopped uselessly in the air, his limbs awkwardly splayed like an overturned sea turtle or a Koopa shell ready to be launched.
Silence.
Then: “Ow.”
The trap, oh so cleverly laid for Matthew Campbell, had instead ensnared the wrong child, its architect. Aamon Athanatos, heir in waiting, vision in onyx and silver, now horizontal and humiliated. That is until he slid, a koopa shell on the move.
He tried to grab hold of a stone, a weed, a gnarled root. To dig his hands in the cracks in the stone, but he failed and he fell.
Thread exited.
Some stories should never be told...