Ask The Puppet Master

Sorry for not posting in a long while! Things have been a bit busy. Luckily, I'm on break right now so I get the chance to relax a little.

I went to Silverchill Mountains for a bit to take pictures and sled! It was cold, but also really fun!!!

Love was not something The Puppet Master ever thought about. Ever. Of course, when he was younger – naively human – love was this great, magical thing that all of the stories and cartoons told him about. But now? Now he was the villain in every story. He was The Puppet Master, scourge of the Island, terror of the Academy, known criminal nationwide. Those did not find love. 

But he’d begun to feel. He’d begun to allow just a sliver of hope and love into his heart, just barely. His heart belonged to no-one aside from himself until that puppet came along. That puppet, and their idiotic, reckless, stray animal ways. They were intoxicating. And since the blood ritual bound him to the emotions of his dearest–his muse–those emotions had only amplified. 

Confession and reciprocation were two banned concepts. Libel was never to be told about his foolish emotions. They would hinder him. He would not be weak. Not after Erebus fought so hard to be strong. No matter how often the thought of his magic feeding off of Libel’s like a twisted tango, or he thought about his claws drawing blood as a kiss pushed them closer, Libel’s hand around his waist, Erebus’s behind their– 

He was a monster. 

And so, he dropped Libel immediately, taking several shaky steps backwards. The Puppet Master’s robes flared, his eyes brightening and narrowing as he heaves breaths he should not be able to take. Magic swirls dangerously, forming the shape of some kind of creature at his side. The storm raged. The fire burned. Shadow stole the light, as astral tried to reach to heal Libel’s wound. Erebus shoved the emotion down as far as he could, until the only traces of empathy were mere memories. 

“Leave.” The Puppet Master commands, voice cold and shaken. It remains a growl. “Get. Out.” He turns, so only the corner of his eye is visible to Libel. The rest of him is turned towards his bookshelf. “The barrier is down. Go, do something useful. Do anything than be here. I don’t need your lies. I don’t need your ridicule. What I need are those books. So go. I expect you back.” 

@ask-the-puppet-master

Libel hits the ground hard, dazed for a second or two like they lent the entirety of their body to their master. Their confusion turns to horror when they're given a simple, one-word command, like a dog being told to sit. They paw at their throat, somehow both infuriated and relieved that they're in one piece. They didn't want to face whatever awaited them with an open wound.

Pain was concrete, something Libel understood. Something wholly theirs--but nothing was theirs anymore. It was all The Puppet Master's. They stand, wobbly, shaking the blood back into their extremities. Their face contorts into frustration, but they can't find it in themselves to argue. Not when Mal is looking up at them from the journal on the floor.

They turn tail and head for the door, putting their arm out ahead of them like they're expecting to be injured by the barrier--they pause when they collide with open air, startled that they weren't lied to. They head out into the warm morning air.

At first they're hesitant. This terrain is unfamiliar to them.

Then they're running. They break into a blind sprint through the woods.

Far from the hideout, they twist their ankle on a bramble. They collapse into the dirt and dry leaves.

They laugh, laugh, laugh manic with the fever of freedom.

Erebus falls to what would be his knees, feeling the very fabric of his being shake and shiver, as if he was trembling. Every ounce of his magic tore itself apart as he feels himself make a noise, but doesn't hear it. The fire scorches in front of him. Astral taunts him. Darkness snakes towards him, like shadow magic isn't already in abundance around him.

If the cave wasn't magically soundproofed, the guttural, horrifying sound Erebus emits would convince Libel that his master was dead. The storm outside grows thick and obscuring, plants begin to grow in the gaps in the walls, and a deep-rooted ache fractures and fragments up Erebus's arms until it reaches his pendant. It feels like hot ice, scalding him and the very thing keeping him together.

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

They can't help but blame themselves for this--some kind of sick guilt. Mal doesn't deserve this fate, but by god, Libel does. Not that they want it--freedom is all they've ever asked for--but days like these being mind controlled seems preferable to being a willing participant. Are they willing? Are the victims ever proud?

Libel doesn't fully feel it when the aimed word hits. Contact with the subject seems required. They gag as they recall yesterday's events, assaulting their senses in a myriad of blinding campfires and the smell of freshwater caves. Their stitches strain at their throat, so perfectly placed by their captor...

Libel claws at a suture, the thread woolly and warm in their hand. They yank, and the string gives, the rest of the string either falling out the stitches, ripping through the thin skin, or tightening in tandem. The puppet doesn't cry--they make an awful keeling sound like a whining dog, sputtering at the end like they can't breathe. Their sinuses well up. Fresh blood coats their fingertips.

Libel hunches over the blurry picture of Mal and the holy scripture beneath them. Between their fingers is a purple thread, stained with viscid, pink plasma. They drool and cough onto the pages and photograph, smearing blood over the violet ink. They shake as they force their weight into their hands, leaning over the journal.

“Libel?” He calls, blinking bleariness from his eyes, “Is that you? What are you doing over there? Are you hurt?”

Why does this creature sound gentle? Why does he sound caring and willing to listen? How can someone so willing to strip a man of his free will so kind to a puppet he adores? Should he not pick favourites? Should his troupe all be precious in equal measure? Why does Libel of all pitiful creatures get this treatment??

“Let me see your face.” The Puppet Master murmurs as he walks over, and almost reassuringly, the command is not a requirement. Libel is not under the spell.

Libel grasps at his sleeves, taking comfort in the heft and texture of the fabric, the violet veins in their arm bulging, before suddenly letting go like they have to remind themselves of manners. They get visibly more afraid when they realize this, their heartbeat quickening and their vision spotting.

This was a bad idea. They went stooping where they shouldn't have. Now they're at their--the Puppet Master's mercy.

"You tore the stitches." He states, "Why?"

Libel doesn’t know what to say. They want to be forgiven, but they don’t even know why they did this to themselves. They’re spurred on by instinct, thrumming at the bars of their cage, but just barely kept in check by self-preservation.

And then he sees the mess. He sees his journals and textbooks, scattered on the floor, read though and scoured like sacred texts. The Puppet Master considers that if he is Libel's subject of worship, then his writings are worshipped texts.

"You went through my writing." The Puppet Master states, his tone a hard growl, "You went. Through MY writing. My PERSONAL TEXTS. Libel, I trusted you. I trusted you with space whilst I rested. It has been years since I have felt comfortable enough to actually sleep. And this is how you repay me?"

The Puppet Master's tone is hurt, the ache manipulative and mean, and yet a pathetically sad sound. How had things changed so drastically?!

The Puppet Master's gentle claws turn sharp, yanking Libel's chin towards him so he can glare daggers. He revels in the fear, drinking it up like it was the only thing keeping him standing. But... This puppet is still useful. They are obedient ordinarily. They worship The Puppet Master, listen to his every word. They're afraid of him, yes, but not like a coward. Like a puppet.

Then, an idea. A way to keep that fear whilst keeping them useful.

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

They can't help but blame themselves for this--some kind of sick guilt. Mal doesn't deserve this fate, but by god, Libel does. Not that they want it--freedom is all they've ever asked for--but days like these being mind controlled seems preferable to being a willing participant. Are they willing? Are the victims ever proud?

Libel doesn't fully feel it when the aimed word hits. Contact with the subject seems required. They gag as they recall yesterday's events, assaulting their senses in a myriad of blinding campfires and the smell of freshwater caves. Their stitches strain at their throat, so perfectly placed by their captor...

Libel claws at a suture, the thread woolly and warm in their hand. They yank, and the string gives, the rest of the string either falling out the stitches, ripping through the thin skin, or tightening in tandem. The puppet doesn't cry--they make an awful keeling sound like a whining dog, sputtering at the end like they can't breathe. Their sinuses well up. Fresh blood coats their fingertips.

Libel hunches over the blurry picture of Mal and the holy scripture beneath them. Between their fingers is a purple thread, stained with viscid, pink plasma. They drool and cough onto the pages and photograph, smearing blood over the violet ink. They shake as they force their weight into their hands, leaning over the journal.

“Libel?” He calls, blinking bleariness from his eyes, “Is that you? What are you doing over there? Are you hurt?”

Why does this creature sound gentle? Why does he sound caring and willing to listen? How can someone so willing to strip a man of his free will so kind to a puppet he adores? Should he not pick favourites? Should his troupe all be precious in equal measure? Why does Libel of all pitiful creatures get this treatment??

“Let me see your face.” The Puppet Master murmurs as he walks over, and almost reassuringly, the command is not a requirement. Libel is not under the spell.

Libel grasps at his sleeves, taking comfort in the heft and texture of the fabric, the violet veins in their arm bulging, before suddenly letting go like they have to remind themselves of manners. They get visibly more afraid when they realize this, their heartbeat quickening and their vision spotting.

This was a bad idea. They went stooping where they shouldn't have. Now they're at their--the Puppet Master's mercy.

"You tore the stitches." He states, "Why?"

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

They can't help but blame themselves for this--some kind of sick guilt. Mal doesn't deserve this fate, but by god, Libel does. Not that they want it--freedom is all they've ever asked for--but days like these being mind controlled seems preferable to being a willing participant. Are they willing? Are the victims ever proud?

Libel doesn't fully feel it when the aimed word hits. Contact with the subject seems required. They gag as they recall yesterday's events, assaulting their senses in a myriad of blinding campfires and the smell of freshwater caves. Their stitches strain at their throat, so perfectly placed by their captor...

Libel claws at a suture, the thread woolly and warm in their hand. They yank, and the string gives, the rest of the string either falling out the stitches, ripping through the thin skin, or tightening in tandem. The puppet doesn't cry--they make an awful keeling sound like a whining dog, sputtering at the end like they can't breathe. Their sinuses well up. Fresh blood coats their fingertips.

Libel hunches over the blurry picture of Mal and the holy scripture beneath them. Between their fingers is a purple thread, stained with viscid, pink plasma. They drool and cough onto the pages and photograph, smearing blood over the violet ink. They shake as they force their weight into their hands, leaning over the journal.

“Libel?” He calls, blinking bleariness from his eyes, “Is that you? What are you doing over there? Are you hurt?”

Why does this creature sound gentle? Why does he sound caring and willing to listen? How can someone so willing to strip a man of his free will so kind to a puppet he adores? Should he not pick favourites? Should his troupe all be precious in equal measure? Why does Libel of all pitiful creatures get this treatment??

“Let me see your face.” The Puppet Master murmurs as he walks over, and almost reassuringly, the command is not a requirement. Libel is not under the spell.

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.

They flip through the notes on the magic types, something in them stirring uncomfortably but intrigued at the mention of Storm magic. Maybe they could've taken to Storm if someone was there to tell them all of this, when they were still a student. Now, these notes are too little, too late, and Libel could never see themselves doing anything but their misshapen form of Physical magic.

Libel freezes at this N benefactor, suddenly burning from within. They can't place why they feel uncomfortable, but it's something akin to jealousy, or maybe guilt? It hums just under their skin, but they would never forgive themselves if they were to lash out at their master at simple jealousy. This isn't quelled when they pry open the letter.

"I don't know why shadow magic is banned." A passage reads, "It's so versatile!! I wish I could show people what I've discovered here, even with just a simple shadow summoning spell!! I can amplify my already existing knowledge on storm magic so easily!! I wish I could show N... I think he would find this as fascinating as I do. I know he would tell the headteacher. And I'd get kicked out. We'd fight, probably. Not worth it over simple magic. Besides, my tests aren't done yet. I have plenty of experiments to run before my hypothesis is sound!!"

The next entry is ripped from the book, and so is the next. It seems like quite a few of these pages have been destroyed from either ripping them out intentionally, or via them being destroyed by spells. The next entry is from a few months in the future.

"I have discovered something extraordinary." It reads, accompanied by a sketch of what seems to be The Puppet Master's pendant, "I have found a shadow artifact. It calls to me--or rather, it calls to my magic... It makes me stronger. Tougher. It's boosting my other spells, not just shadow!! I will have to do further research. Note to self: Keep this a secret. Not even N can know. Shadow artefacts are not keen on just anyone being in their presence."

Something hums contentedly in the back of Libel's mind. It urges them onwards.

The next journal is new. The leather cover is barely worn, touched only by the surface it rests on and the string hands that The Puppet Master now possesses. The handwriting is neat and concise, cursive to the utmost perfection in long, curling amethyst ink that perfectly encapsulates The Puppet Master. But past the beauty and neatness of the writing itself, the words are much, much darker.

"Obedience Spell.

A spell to make any willing* participant a completely obedient puppet. This spell can take weeks to prepare, but if a participant is aware of the spell and/or is already obedient enough, the process can take mere days, or even hours.

The process begins with a simple deal ordinarily. Contact with the vict-- subject seems required. Further testing is necessary. The spell soon begins to twist the subject's thoughts and dreams into suggestions, and in some cases, nightmares. This does not harm the subject. Nightmares have not been seen in willing subjects. Subjects are largely unaware of the effects until they are at the stage of total control.

The next stage is commands. Any command given by the owner is forced to be completed by the subject and the spell. This is the stage in which the spell gains sentience. The spell may begin to feast on magic, unless the deal to cause the spell directly involves the subject's magic.

The penultimate stage of the spell is majority control, with patches of lucidity. The subject is mostly under the control of the caster, aside from brief periods of complete lucidity. The subject isn't yet fully aware of the spell, but the spell begins to physically manifest as a creature of any spell element.

The final stage is complete and total control. The subject is only ever lucid at the casters command. The subject is fully receptive to commands, and is made to do anything the caster commands.

*Note: Unwilling participants have been shown to work. More testing needed."

“Illusion?” The Puppet Master queries, looking over at his muse as they leave, “Oh, this is more than just an illusion, musa mea. But I shall tell you more when you awake. Can’t have mea pupa exhausted. Or rather, more exhausted than you usually are.” 

The Puppet Master feels himself smile, or, rather, he feels what should be his face twist in a way that could be akin to smiling. It was pleasant. He vaguely considers what his face used to look like when he was human. When he was alive? Was he still alive? Was magic alive? 

Such deep questions for such a late hour. The Puppet Master shifted his attention to watching his pet walk away tiredly, observing the vulnerability shown in just this simple display. He thought back to the actions of Libel throughout the day. The vulnerabilities shown then. It was pathetic. It was weak. 

… 

It made the fireplace crackle warmly, and the snow outside to swirl and dance. It made the vines crawl up the edge of the fireplace, caressing stone edges as if they were meant to be. He felt the Astral magic around his core brighten, sharpening into something greater than just a chain. Erebus shut it down faster than it could grow. 

He did not care for the puppet. He did not care for this project. He only cared for success and power. 

Except, The Puppet Master found himself wanting to rest. He found himself willing to close his eyes and relax, allowing his form to dissipate enough for almost-slumber. He almost found himself willing to answer those prying questions, almost eager to do so. How strange… The Puppet Master has to do more research. For the solution might be an answer he’s not ready to admit. 

Libel, for the first time, gives their room a proper look as they shut the door behind them. It's cosy and more than they could ever ask for. It’s like if the Academy was kind. It smells like campfire smoke and comforting shadow magic in here, the scent filling their senses and nesting deep in their lungs. This place easily beats sleeping in a hayloft or on the street.

The practitioner sits down on the bed and takes off their boots, setting them down with a clop as they hit the floor in a messy pile. As the lights dim, Libel lays on the blankets and curls up to themselves, kneels to their chest like a dog at it's master's feet. They want to be overjoyed, and to fall asleep smiling, but... they can't.

A profound and deep sadness hits them all at once in a blitz, but they don't cry. They just sit in pitch dark and silence with themselves, letting the weight of what's happened in the past hours settle in like a crow taking roost in their chest. Somehow, they hadn't been upset before, but the moment they get too comfortable they get cold feet. The shapeless despair lulls them to sleep as Libel clutches the stitches on their throat.

The room itself was quiet, disturbed only by the gentle thrum of a very low flame. It flickered in time to the intake of breath, imitating what one could assume The Puppet Master’s breathing would look like if he were to have lungs. His actual robes lay mostly motionless, save for slight flickers and odd movements. His amulet’s eye was shut tight, though at the sound of movement, it flickers open blearily, though The Puppet Master still does not wake.

It’s almost… peaceful, to see such a terrifying force like this. He has a book in his lap—something on cooking meals from Lamplight. It looks old and handmade, likely an heirloom of sorts. The Puppet Master has a hand on its cover, presumably with a thumb between the pages, but considering his hand was merely a crossbar now, his haphazard bookmarking went in vain.

They sift through bookshelves, pulling out a journal or two. They sit by the campfire and flip through the books absentmindedly. They even properly read a few handwritten pages, swooning over the contents. They shouldn't be. Libel shuts the journals and sits them down.

They look wistfully out the windows. They feel so ashamed of themselves for not taking the opportunity to run. A walk would be nice, but...

Libel stands. They approach the entrance to the cave, and jam their hand into the barrier.

Shadow magic shoots through their nervous system, and they stagger back, swearing and clutching their arm. They have no visible wounds, but their arm suddenly throbs in time with their heartbeat and their veins are so dark they can be seen through the skin. They hold the sore injured limb in their other hand as they turn around to look at their master, praying he's still asleep.

The pain made them lucid. They see the world through a new pair of eyes as they get to systematically searching the hideout, trying to get a proper read on their surroundings without rose-tinted glasses.

“Storm magic has been shown as a way of possibly storing energy, harnessing it to the world’s advantage.” One quote highlights, wirh a note attached that reads “Oh, come on. This book is a JOKE!! Everyone and their mother knows storm doesn’t hold, it creates!! I wish [scribbled out name] was here…”

Another line reads, “Whilst shadow magic hasn’t been shown to react to storm like other elements, it seems to be drawn to the stored energy.” with the note “Wrong again. How did this guy publish a book??”

At the bottom of the page, a note reading, “*Author acknowledges inaccuracy regarding storm’s reaction to plant magic.” with an annotation from a student with different handwriting to the rest, reading, “E would LOVE this, too bad he’s off being mad about the rest of the book. - N”

The second book is a well-worn sketchbook filled with drawings done by a younger Erebus. The drawings werent half bad, mainly depicting the architecture of the academy. A few doodles scattered about seemed to be depicting a few pets. Even rarer were the drawings of characters, dated and named accordingly. It was becoming increasingly obvious how much time The Puppet Master had spent between being imprisoned and breaking free, just from the dates in this book. The characters were of a popular children’s book series. It seems Erebus likes his fantasy coming of age.

Just as Libel is about to close the book, a letter slipped out. It’s handwritten, shakily and messily as if it were tje author’s first time writing in a long time. The handwriting is unmistakably the first annotator from before, however, and quite plausibly the owner of the doodled-in sketchbook. The letter, written on beautiful parchment and written with rich ink, reads;

“Dear N,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all. Somehow, I doubt it will.

I always joked that I’d see you behind bars one day. I never considered that it would be me in the cell. Though, I haven’t seen you yet. You haven’t visited. Please do visit when you can. It gets lonely down here, especially at night. And it hurts, N. It hurts. Did you know how much it hurts? Did you know about the agony? Did you know about what those crystals do to me? What they do now I’m this?

Hoping for a reply back, your dearest, E [smudged].”

…

Wow.