IT’S PAYDAY, FELLAS!

                         WE'RE IN OUR PRIME, THIS IS OUR TIME!

fever dream.

the thing parley never quite learned about magic is that a body is a vessel, not a conduit. it wells up from within, seeps insidious through veins and pools in fingertips. she knew–that if she used too much, it would turn her lips blue and her breath would come ragged, that if she pulled too hard at the source it would wrench itself free at the roots and she would be set adrift, too. that was why she borrowed the magic of others, after all. loop a handful of students into some greater working and let them exhaust themselves building it, step in later and twine your workings with theirs like choking ivy and revel in the way your heart still beats strong.

(she did not have many friends in college.)

but magic clamors to be used. it comes in a trickle and a river and a tide and overflows, fills you up and spills over. this is something she is only now beginning to learn. parley still knows the words to all her spells, can still scratch out the runes in the air and whisper driftwood-spark incantations and shape the summon in her mind but–but she has forgotten how to turn word and will into something physical and her magic is running over.

this is where she ends up. stars clouding the edge of her vision and a copper-iron tang from biting her tongue and her hands shaking, shaking, shaking. she is by the great yawning pit at the center of spirale, searching ink black for answers or reprieve and finding neither. instead--instead her eyes cross and out of the hollow crawls something towering, burning red and driftwood blue, lashed around with chains that wither and rust and crumble away as she watches. on the nape of her neck, the brand sparks to life, burning a fierce trail down her spine with its own inner heat.

Welcome to scenic Radiale, Daenerys!

You’ll be staying in TOWNHOUSE 243!

You will be able to run at the speed of a motorcycle up to a mile a day!

You’ll be given a wooden knife!

Enjoy your stay!