Thread: Man Witch [Goody + Prince]

Paradise. That was the only way he could describe the place. The cradle of mankind, in the southern hemisphere of Loul, the gorgeous city of Valheru sprawled like a tan-skinned beauty, sunning languidly by the ocean. The air was deliciously warm, tasting clean and fresh, with the hint of salt wafting up from the docks. Alabaster columns and terra cotta roofs absorbed and reflected the sunlight, giving the atmosphere over the city a warm, inviting glow. And in the ocean, standing a good 30 feet, the creamy, stone statue of a woman in flowing robes, fierce of gaze and sure in foot, fearlessly facing the sea swept storms that might come, with arm raised to unleash some dreadful, destructive power. Although, it was hard to imagine the storms coming now. The fabled city of witches. It was really a school, they heard, but there were just so many of them, and so much to learn, they'd turned it into their own little hub of civilization. Less a temporary roost for the gift and unenlightened and more a fixture for the Elite matrons who stayed to live and breathe the art of teaching magic. From the gold infused, marble hallway, through the window at the end, they could see the shocking, electric blue sky, white birds floating by, like lazy shooting stars, rising and falling on the sea salt breeze. The hall where they sat, perched together on a lonely bench, was cavernous and bright, the warm light from outside filling the high vaulted ceilings and stroking over everything with a peaceful, gentle glow. The colors of everything seemed to be reds, peaches, oranges, yellows, and sandy white, yet there was no loss of vibrancy. Comparatively, Quinn looked like a soggy bit of rusty kelp that had accidentally slapped up onto the rocky shores of Valheru. Brown hair, clipped short against his neck and ears but just long enough up top to reveal him fresh and mussed from a nap and just as brown scruff lightly shading his tanned, swarthy cheeks in an unkempt stubble from lip to mid-neck. Eyes, green and gold like his mother's, married well with the dark, murky green of his jacket and his charcoal, muddy gray-brown trousers made him look like a pile of shit sitting on the cream colored bench beside Deidarmia. Sweat soaked the front of his shirt and damp-spiked his short hair, but not from the heat. Right in front of them, 10-20 feet across the circular, esoteric symbols on the marble floor, were the tall double doors of the Matrons Council chamber. Quinn had already been in there and out again, granted the pleasure of more waiting in the hall while they talked about him behind closed doors of red and gold. Which was fine by him. Not like he was in a rush, really. And the pleasant sight of occasional witches passing through the hall was a welcome distraction after the ordeal inside the Council chamber. Armie had been silent for a while but she was asking him about it again. To be fair, he'd been flippant with the details the first time the questions had come. I blacked out again, he offered this time, not bothering to look at her and shrugging easily, hoping the breezy dismissal and vagueness would shut her up again. He didn't want to talk about it. Besides, his memory was fuzzy anyway. All he had was what they'd told him to do and then he was blinking at shocked, distraught faces, with black and purple lines of char streaking the ground around him in elegant, menacing circles. No clue where they'd come from, how they got there, and despite the 'snap of his fingers' reconsciousness, there was the sense that he'd lost time. Mostly just from the ladies reactions to him, horrified, aghast, and stern. Something had happened but how long it was or exactly what he'd done, there was nothing. What more could he fricking say about it if he couldn't remember? It was why they were here. Ever since he'd turned 17, Quinn had possessed an oddness...something that had started setting him apart from the others. He'd been reprimanded, scolded, and ostracized for it, forcing him to cling to normalcy like a gigantic ship mast in a rocky sea. As the years went on, despite his best efforts to brush it off, to hide among regular men, the oddness had grown more apparent. The past year, he'd blacked out 6 times, although in years past it'd been a rare occasion. And always, there was some destruction left behind in the split seconds between before and after. ...it was starting to scare people. They thought he might hurt someone. Oleandra, the resident hag witch in Glennwood, had been reluctant to admit he had the gift. It didn't bless men, she'd said. Still, when in her stone cottage with Armie one afternoon getting 'tea' to help him not get so stressed out, it'd happened again. Suddenly, it was the most important thing for him to go to Valheru and let the witches take a look at him. And ignoring it, brushing people off, wasn't an option. All three of the families in Glennwood had voted and insisted that he follow Oleandra's advice. So...here they bloody were in this veritable paradise, surrounded by powerful, gorgeous women of every shape and color. Pulling out a parchment cig from his pocket, Quinn held it loosely between his lips as he lit it from a match scratched across the bench, the overwhelming, pungently spicy scent of burning cinnamon wafting around him in a warm cloud. Glancing at Armie, he shrugged, eyebrows bouncing in challenge at her over his dirty habit, especially in the elegance and richness of the great hall. Nobody had told him he couldn't smoke indoors yet. ...And even if they had, there was no one right here, right now currently telling him that, so... As another witch entered the grand hall, walking to a bench along the left side, a salacious grin crookedly slithered up into his right cheek, and he gave Deidarmia a casual pat on the arm with the back of his hand, indicating the lone beauty. By the Light, Armie! Another one! That's five! In fact... he briefly bit his lip in thought. I don't think I've seen a gal wear a skirt longer than her fricking knees since we got here. Sun-kissed thighs, the lot of them. This one in particular had a dress, strapped in criss crosses on her back, a high neckline, yet a loose, soft skirt that brushed her thighs, showing off lovely, curvy legs. Quinn was fricking dying. This weather, yeah? Hey, so, what you think if the witches send us back home...how about we just lay low in the city for a day or three? I'm sure it'll be fine and it's not like we got anything to rush back to. A week in paradise could do us good. He elbowed her coaxingly, sticking out his tongue with a ribald, smoke-weathered chuckle. Staring at the young raven haired delight, Quinn caught her eye and gave her an acknowledging jerk of his chin, hitting her with a smirk both charming and arrogant. A combo he'd been told was irresistible.