13th of Vhalar 722, Dusk
Rakvald enjoyed nights at the Painted Swine, more than he thought he would. For the long past few years, he hadn't noticed how strangely people looked upon his mutations. How odd they found him, until he was treated like anyone else in the Painted Swine, as a paradigmed mage who bore no marks of arcana or otherwise. It was a strange sensation, and gave new perspective to the lapsed mage. Yet happy hour was starting to wind down, and the bar was closing early for the harvesters. Rakvald lingered only a moment more, before he left the tavern, and made his way back to his apartment in the Glass Quarter.
It'd been quite some time since Rakvald had felt anywhere close to alone. Always cloying and caressing the back of his mind, the Inheritor had been a constant companion since he was a younger man in Quacia. Now paradigmed, locked away as it was, the spark lay dormant, and he felt srangely isolated. He'd driven off Renfreud, for trying once more to take his ring of paradigm. Renfreud had insisted that it was in the lapsed mage's interest. That he wished nothing more than to see him claim his birthright. Rakvald was no psychologist, but even he couldn't help but see the projection ono display. The one that Renfreud wished to hold up and ascend, was his own mortal existence. But then, Rakvald had promised to teach the lad...
He sighed as he came into his apartments in the Glass Quarter. There, he opened the door and went inside. He sat by his desk, ready to pen another letter doomed to be unanswered by his family in Scalvoris. He had the parchment and quill in hand, before he noticed something unusual, something that was amiss and hadn't been there previously when last he checked. It was a finely bound book, thick as an encyclopedia, with arcane runes and symbols playing on its face in golden leaf. He furrowed his brow. Against his better judgment, and the lessons against temptation he'd recently tried to espouse, he opened the book.
Inside, he saw immediately a treasure trove of arcane knowledge, opening up first with the art of Becoming. As he read it, he became entranced once more by the idea of weilding magic. He felt the tug on his soul, between the need to mend fences with his family, and the pull to the southern Continent tha the sparks insisted upon.
He read about the art of becoming, elucidated in such glorious detail and reverence, that it could've only been written by someone who knew the art, and had a true admiration of it. There was even a section on speculation as to whether Becoming may have been the first arcane art discovered by mortals. Afterall, the physical changes that are wrought by becoming... are they not akin to mutations in themselves? To witchmarks? Perhaps they were all moving toward something greater.
Rakvald absently fingered the paradigm ring on his left hand. He twisted it on his finger, feeling the anchoring effect that it placed upon his spark-riddled soul. Of course, even paradigmed was no true remedy for magical infection. All of the old arcane alterations were still there, lying in wait, holding out hope that they might continue to grow once more.
The subject moved in the book adroitly from the topic of becoming, to that of Graft, which was speculated to be an offshoot spark of Becoming. But that could not be, or one couldn't very well take on a spark of two of a kind. Or could they? Rakvald scratched his chin as he flipped the page. The text contained some fascinating theories, and also some real information that he could corroborate through his own mastery of those two magical arts. Where did this book come from, and how had its author learned so much?
The answer was had when Rakvald absently realized this was written in an archaic form of Vahanic. He almost didn't realize it at first, that it was written in his native tongue. It had so enthralled him that he didn't even realize it was barely legible. It felt as if the ideas and theories and metaphysical knowledge flowing off the page had a will of its own, entering his mind as though delivered by a buoyant scholar.
He proceeded through the pages of Graft, edging toward the techniques of mastery, and all their intricacies. The beauty of magic, though it was less powerful and more was given up in its pursuit, was its flexibility. There were no Immortal godfathers or godmothers to ask 'Mother may I?', or cajole in order to build his skill in the spark. No, there was understanding, there was skill, and there was power at the heart of arcana. This was the ideal of arcana. Freedom to use it however one wished.
He continued, and it seemed it knew his own arcane proclivities, for the next section was based upon a lesser practiced magic, but one that he nonetheless also possessed. Hone. It went into details of the runes that Rakvald was already familiar with, even going so far as to draw in exact precision these runes, both Umbral and Lucis, as they appeared and were constructed in reality. The Hone section almost resembled more of an abstract scribbling book, with all of the chained runes and combinations that were present there.
After a break or so of immersing himself in this section, he arrived at a special technique, of hone. Ethersight. Exclusive to Lucis magi, Ethersight allowed one to see ambient magical energies, and also to track them to their potential sources. Thus allowing one to find fractures, both minor and major at their foyers and sources. Such a technique would surely be a boon to one engaged in the art of ensorcelling. Idly, as Rakvald turned the page, he wondered if those mages in the Forbidden post had similar techniques to suss out the fractures that often opened up near the Forbidden Spit.
He spent a good break, pouring over other techniques within that of Hone, before the page turned to Transmutation. Surely now, he was convinced that the order of the sections was no coincidence, but had been placed perhaps on purpose to his own affiliations with the arcane. Nevertheless, he read on, confirming what he already knew of the transmuter's art, and going on to plumb the depths of deeper proficiency, which he'd yet to do.
By now, the ring was nearly at the tip of Rakvald's finger. He barely noticed he'd begun to take it off. In truth, a part of him must have wished for it to be so, as he reached the mastery levels of transmutation in the book, it slipped off entirely. Then a dramatic transformation began taking place, as the etheric channels opened up in his soul like a great eye opening.
His flesh began twisting again, reforming and tearing apart into the mutated tendrils that made up his left arm, and his face. He grew those tentacles out of his upper lip, as he gurgled with surprise. His facial structure contorted, reforming into the bat-like features that dominated his upper face. His pupils elongated, like that of a goat's, and the mutations upon his left arm began reforming, emerging from the depths of his dermis.
The rush of euphoria, of the transformation was almost more than he could bear, and he dropped the book on the desk, nearly knocking over his inkwell. Thankfully it rolled off the table away from the book, so as not to damage it.
He felt his body writhing inside and out, his soul grasping for that magical power, tantalizing him with its near return. Yet he knew well the dangers of engaging in magical spells so recently after being paradigmed. He merely took the ring, and placed it in a locked compartment beneath his desk. He might return to it at one point, but for now he'd given into his temptation to transform back into the sexy mutant that was Rakvald.
Outside the window, Renfreud lurked, looking in on his master, for whom he'd procured that very same tome he'd been reading. He giggled incessantly, suddenly giddy with the implications of his master's return to form. He would still give him time, though. The anger wouldn't subside so easily, especially that of Rakvald. And he had no wish to poke the cephalopod's sense of patience.
So he stole away, climbing down from the window and the lattice, and onto the streets. There was a noticeable skip in his step as he went along, anticipating that it would not be long before Rakvald resumed his training of the industrious apprentice.
This was a good thread of how temptation can draw an addict back into its clutches as he tries to fight the obsession with magic. It will be interesting to see how this struggle continues. Thank you for the Read. Fate.