Of Fated Encounters
| —— | banner by fire davies.  moving forward isn't as bad as it seems, you're in-between a space I forget and remember summary, this thread is happening on OCTOBER 12TH, 2025, in the EARLY EVENING with @ARCHER DUNCAN / wc: 571. In the month or so that Harlan had been back at school, there had been far too many nights where the phantom chains of his possession clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. It was when he had to double-check that his fingers moved the way he wanted them to, the off-kilter feeling he felt while on a broom, and the brain fog that covered so much of the information that he could easily pull at before. It was disgustingly cruel to be so young and feel the betrayal of the body as a reminder of what happened, how autonomy was yanked without so much of a second to react. The residual effects still plagued him and he wasn't anywhere closer in figuring out what had happened and what he could do to protect himself moving forward from that type of curse. That's why Harlan was adamant about scouring the library halls for anything that could be an answer to him or lead him to the source of magic never described in class. Could this have been the work of an imperius curse cast without words or wand? He replayed the fragmented memory back and back again seeing the silhouette of a suit and a large gliding figure beckoning three beautiful woman through what looked like a portal who struck without command. They knew what they had been there for and made quick work of Harlan's weak psyche defenses. It took everything out of him to attempt to break out and not without cost as he was still figuring out the ramifications that might've had with the Athanatos' and Professor Lécuyer, a man whose class Harlan refused to engage with more than the one word answer and scribbled half-asses assignments. The library had an overwhelming amount of tomes for consideration and the restricted section kept gnawing for him to break in and seek out some real answers, but Harlan decided to forego that route for now. Instead, the Gryffindor scanned through the section of wandless and wordless magic looking for something that might explain to him how quickly the mechanisms of magic could work without a focus or a command. His fingers on the spine of Advanced Spellcasting of the Psyche and pulled it off the shelf before he accidentally bumped into someone else who had appeared in his row. " Oh shit, my bad. " The words escaped his mouth before he could fully recover as his free hand went out to the other's shoulder to protect him from falling for a second before he retracted and took a proper look at the wizard he almost bulldozed over. The student looked haunted at first glance, pale skin that rivaled the moon and hair unkempt and unruly but purposeful. He'd assume dhampir if he'd ever met any to know what they actually looked like, but if nothing else, he was lithe and long with an energy that screamed loudly of pain and torture. " I didn't take the book you were looking for, did I? " He'd offer a question and a slight smile, placing back on the cracked facade of niceties that he learned throughout his entire life for the sake of being pleasant despite how his thoughts swirled and spiraled. He certainly didn't want his looks to fade and twist into the despair he felt and looking at this stranger had him doubling down on that thought. | —— |
Last edited by Harlan Montgomery on 31 Dec 2025, 01:40, edited 1 time in total.
Of Fated Encounters
| xxx@Harlan Montgomery | October 12th, Library. | Banner by yours trulyxxxx |
| xxx |  and we're dying with every step we take; we're dying with every breath we make The library was a heaven of a solace, with its tall ceilings brightly illuminated and hallowed halls lined with bookshelves. In each shelf held seas of knowledge, with him on a boat of curiosity, floating upon its fickle waves. Somedays he had goals in mind, would set the rutter in a direction and gun the motor, while other days he would allow his whims to take hold, making turns in all perilous ways and straying from sea routes until he saw land. Rarely did he visit the library out of a compulsory nature, to retrieve a textbook or study the brewing of a potion, for he held too much passion for literature to disregard it simply as a tool to further meaningless studies. Even somedays he found no need to pick up a book, and simply soaked in the ambiance of the august room. Archer was a quiet boy. He was a lonesome boy. He was a boy plagued by melancholy. In a desperate attempt to better his predicament, he had tried to seek asylum in the library from the constant war ongoing in his mind. He had trudged up the stairs from the dungeons until he finally felt sun on his pallid skin, finally felt the wind through his unruly hair. It was almost on instinct that he had turned away from the Great Hall and towards the familiar oaken doors. His feet had led him there before his mind could register, and his arms had pushed it open, leather satchel creaking against wood as his stomach caved in the same anxiety that had nagged him for days on end. He closed his eyes in a second longer than a blink, opening them again as the doors opened and the room revealed itself before him. The same wonder filled him as he set foot, but it was no longer a childish one. Even on his darkest days it had always been present upon his entrance to the room, and oft times it was an awe he could not describe. It was something bordering on delight; it was something bordering on fear. This was as good as a armoury of weapons, for ignorance was bliss and knowledge was danger. He had never intended to direct all his pain outwards — he had once bene a timid, mousy boy. Yet as he consumed the gunpoint were directed towards his own heart, the daggers drawing red lines across his own skin, while an artillery gun was fired across his mind daily. He must have been a masochist for keeping coming back to this place of torture. Archer adamantly believed that his woes were caused by his sensitivity. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. His intellect was the culprit behind his torturous days, his sentiments a catalyst for his wretched hardships. His face so often spoke of great misery, yet so rarely did those who observe him understand his deep quandaries and unsolvable quagmires. Neither did he, most of his days. Be it correct or not, it was always easier placing the blame on something. If he was self-deprecating enough to do it on himself, then so be it. “Oh shit, my bad.” The words cut through his pensive state of disarray, but the action that accompanied it did first. As Archer turned a corner, haphazardly thinking of things far from considering that he was in a public space with other, living, moving human beings (such absentminded cases were in fact often for him, leading to convenient plot devices for his author), he felt a hard body against his, almost causing him to tumble onto the floor. It was not that he was weak — he was — but having been so caught off guard even the balance of an explorer did not save him, but the instincts of one must have. Catching hold onto one of the bookcases he hauled himself up from his perilous position of almost-embarrassment. “No, no,” he reassured, on the same instinct that had led him to the library, before he had even seen the perpetrator properly. Voice screaming of tired nothingness, he held a hand to the back of his head as it began to throb. It was no onset of the result of the sheepish situation, but now a common effect of the somatisation he was used to. He grimaced, visible enough for the other boy to see at their close proximity, subtle enough for any passer by to miss. He had learnt to master it, thanks the pains that often plagued his body. The torture in his mind no longer simply stayed there — no, it must extend to bodily manifestations. “—Sorry, I have a headache today,” he said, excusing himself clumsily, as he gathered his satchel, preparing to make his leave. Yet then he glanced up at the boy, eyes glancing over his healthy body, his fair skin, his head of curls, those bright blue eyes. His face was one of beauty, yet his eyes lacked such features, and while he may not look as haunted as Archer did, some part of him screamed of it. There was something about him Archer could not quite understand, a haunted air despite his fine fettle appearance. There had always been an animosity towards things he could not understand, yet today Archer could not help but feel an unspoken connection to the boy, as if they, by some decree of the unforgiving universe, were fated to meet. Archer shook his head as he found himself more or less staring at the boy, and eventually returned the same smile that the stranger had offered, pained, weary, merely the uppermost layer of an iceberg of pain that laid underneath. His eyes dropped to the book held in his arms, one he had never seen before in the library’s sea of reading material. Advanced Spellcasting of the Psyche. A question with genuine curiosity, he asked “…What are you reading?” Somehow, Archer thought, they just might understand each other. 'cause you might get a raindrop in your eye, and heaven forbid they see you cry |
xxx |
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht