#leventstarter

There had been hellhounds in the city for the better part of the last year but too few people ventured down into the catacombs to notice. Yavie whistled as he tried to get one to come out, for research purposes. He was studying the Otherbeasts in conjunction with the bomb fragments he’d recovered from Theneras’ devices - desperate to understand what the tinkerer had used to power them. Yavie whistled again as he tried to get one of the creature’s attention, adding some song magic to it to draw the beasts out like had done in the forest so many times before. Instead, he saw Levent. “Oh, hey you-” Levent the exile, Levent the criminal, Levent the asphodel fey. Levent the handsome. “have you seen any hellhounds around?” Yavie asked, sidestepping any animosity that he was meant to harbor for the asphodel. Grudges didn’t really serve him anymore, they were boring and hate gave you wrinkles. 

Felandaris owed his presence in this realm to the blood fey, the necromancer whom the drow held a small degree of jealousy towards. He was also grateful, were he not bound by the necromantic pact preventing him from harming Levent, then the fey might just have been significant enough to warrant sacrificing to the book of the dead. Sadly, restricted as he was, Felandaris could do no such thing. So, he opted to settle for familiarity and interest. Clearly since Levent had managed to resurrect him the creature had to be worth something. Most of the beings on this side of the Otherworld were relatively inept, particularly where magic was concerned. “You’re planning something.” Felandaris mused, Ayi’ig had fulfilled her end of the bargain, the Otherworld had been quarried and mined, magical ore delivered to the Asphodel. It was all very exciting, “Well, what is it?”

Poison was a specialty of his. Plants in general, but in the decades that he’d spent with the Dahlia alchemy was something Alastor was known for. Aconite was too common, even a small amount could restrict someone’s breathing and make their heart arrest. It was beautiful though, wolfsbane. But still, common. The Otherworld bloomed with fragrant opportunities, so time and again he would venture in and experiment with different variations, noting the qualities of each in one of his journals. 

Alastor stood in front of his bench, tools and regents hovering above the station as he worked to distill a concentrated solution into one of the bekers in front of him. Alastor resigned himself to his studies while Vivianne continued to digest her resurgence into blood magic. The demon was at least partially to blame, he encouraged it, still did - now was not the time to pull punches or to be afraid of using every tool in their wheelhouse. 

“Levent.” Alastor greeted as the tune of the other’s magic echoed against his peripherals, most who practiced magic found the methodical nature of his magic too dull. Alastor found comfort in it. Excitement when he discovered something new. There were no flowers in hell, nothing new, nothing ever changed. Just violence, but he was good at that too. “You’re up late.”