Lola’s Friday afternoon odd encounter(Lola)

Date: 2025-07-25 12:47

(Lola’s Friday afternoon odd encounter(Lola):Lola)

[Fri Jul 25 2025]

In Ritual Tools & Warding/span>/spanWhere else would one go for a magical wand than to see a nearby witch or
wizard, their own expertise in the field abounding? This hut is not that
different, as here the eyes feast upon a veritable banquet of magical or
even archaic items. Rings that shimmer with dark magic, shadows dancing–
haemomancy or necromancy? Which calls to you? Perhaps both, that bastard
glistening with the promise of eternal power– at what cost? No worries!!
Nearby stands its opposition, a gnarled magic wand formed of a dark wood
with a glowing crystal at its tip, the promise of unity with the natural
world and its denizens. A straw broom stick leans against the wall, too,
shimmering with magics, ready to ride through the skies if only the mind
could will it so. A small, wooden box sits on a nearby table, its lid is
slightly ajar, and a faint glow emantates from within. Inside is: a book
bound in darkened leather, pages yellowed with an age called temptation.

It is about 80/span>/span26C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Carnation and Oakwood/span>/span(Your target discovers a cursed object in an antique shop or estate sale – something that seems valuable but begins warping reality around them in subtle, then increasingly dangerous ways. They must figure out how to break the curse or get rid of it before it consumes them completely.)

“Alejandrooo,” Lola chimes back when Matias says her name in that warning tone, fluttering her lashes in his direction as she slowly turns to face him, watching as he puts absolutely nothing back where it goes, but then again, did it ever have a place to begin with? First of all, look at all of these cool things,” she tells him, taking up the jar that he had mentioned with a singular book inside and holding it above her head, letting the light from a nearby lantern shimmer over both the sealed glass jar and the book tucked away inside.

“It’s the Necronomiconita!” she chirps, wiggling her hips from side to side. “The Book of the Dead, children’s edition! For young Dark Magic learners!” she announces proudly, bringing it back down and standing before Matias, letting him see it a bit closer, too. “It comes with baby’s first alembic jar for distilling toxins,” she reveals, giggling happily. “See? Here, you can get the book out by-” she rambles.

But all is not quiet and peaceful in the Witch’s Hut this morning- it starts a a tingle. A subtle vibration in Matias’s pinky finger, as though a nerve were pinched and the digit were going numb. It’s the feeling of one thousand ants marching along your skin, until eventually true numbness sets in; cold and unfeeling. The pinky twitches once, then twice, as though attempting to recover circulation.

Then the sensation starts to spread to the other fingers. They want to grip, to grab, to hold, to squeeze, and yet with a mind of their own they struggle to perform the task.

“And it comes with essence of Lily of the Valley as well as Water Hemlock here- with parent supervision, of course..

(sorry, quotation fix) “Alejandrooo,” Lola chimes back when Matias says her name in that warning tone, fluttering her lashes in his direction as she slowly turns to face him, watching as he puts absolutely nothing back where it goes, but then again, did it ever have a place to begin with? “First of all, look at all of these cool things,” she tells him, taking up the jar that he had mentioned with a singular book inside and holding it above her head, letting the light from a nearby lantern shimmer over both the sealed glass jar and the book tucked away inside.

“It’s the Necronomiconita!” she chirps, wiggling her hips from side to side. “The Book of the Dead, children’s edition! For young Dark Magic learners!” she announces proudly, bringing it back down and standing before Matias, letting him see it a bit closer, too. “It comes with baby’s first alembic jar for distilling toxins,” she reveals, giggling happily. “See? Here, you can get the book out by-” she rambles.

But all is not quiet and peaceful in the Witch’s Hut this morning- it starts a a tingle. A subtle vibration in Matias’s pinky finger, as though a nerve were pinched and the digit were going numb. It’s the feeling of one thousand ants marching along your skin, until eventually true numbness sets in; cold and unfeeling. The pinky twitches once, then twice, as though attempting to recover circulation.

Then the sensation starts to spread to the other fingers. They want to grip, to grab, to hold, to squeeze, and yet with a mind of their own they struggle to perform the task.

“And it comes with essence of Lily of the Valley as well as Water Hemlock here- with parent supervision, of course..

The chipper are careless way in which Lola handles the numerous arcane mainstays and rarities causes Matias to gives her something of a judgemental look from the vacation professor with his unshaven beard growing in to really sell that he is not working this weekk. He eventually relents when she mentions all the ‘beginner goods’. “I suppose you are the only shop carrying something for neophytes.” in a resonating baritone of a voice the final bits and bobs she had handed him returned to the shelves but definitely not their places. He has yet to notice the brass ring but he absently scratch at the back of his left hand where he wears the pinky ring, then his brow furrows as he looks down at it. Flexing his hand a few times he grabs his own pinky with a thumb and forefinger, rubbing and trying to pop the knuckle then tries flexing his hand again wholly distracted by the sensation. That flexing, from open palm to clenched fist keeps going.

“/Babies/,” Lola chides Matias when he so judgmentally frames her wares for ages 3 and up, turning to huff out a breath in his direction, though eventually that long, squeezable, throttle-worthy throat turns and she gazes down at the Necronomiconita, then sets it aside and lifts up Baby’s First Fireball Spell, gazing longingly down at them for a time with a faint smile curving her lips. “I didn’t have anything like this when I first discovered my powers. I wonder if it would have helped?” she inquires, thumbing through the pages with runic circles and simple Latin incantations- a small sampling of dried bat guano and sulfur in little sealed plastic baggies attached, in case baby can’t cast without material components! But she seems… Sad. Then shrugs and files them away. “Maybe someday,” she chimes before wandering over to the broom and picking it up, holding it delicately in her hands and turning to face Matias, saying, “/This/ is what I’m focused on right now! If I can attune my mind to this broom, I can fly with it!!” she declares proudly.

But those wrists… So fragile and pale. They’re so easily broken, just with a little squeeze. She could be crushed into a ball, or crushed into a sausage! Squeezed like a bottle of ketchup, wouldn’t that be fun? All ten fingers, all ten toes, snapped like glow sticks, crushed like cookies.

In the vein of how so many of Matias’s problems are solved, the bearded vacationing professor bluffs it! There is some distracted nodding along with the babies comment and the distracted assessment of a babies first fireball kit. A couple *uh-huhs* and then even a skeptical *mmm* sound. His left arm with the brass pinky ring has progressed beyond flexing and clenching his fist to curling then twisting his wrist almost like he were exploring the mobility for the first time. His free hand adjusts his low set spectacle as he moves towards a broom while Lola is still musing over someday. Then she is coming right towards him and the broom, rounding on the man with the broom in hand. “Ashford has a similar desire though I doubt he is willing to resort to traditional focuses for his own path to flying.” he says in a distracted brazilian accented english. The arm with a mind of its own reaches out tofr Lola only to have Matias’s turns and cause it to grasb a gnarled wand with a glowing crystal at the end. It lifts it up and with a death grip squeezes but it cannot be crushed in the palm of his soft academic hand so it is thrown back carelessly. “We were discussing your graduation. You know with finals around the corner, you become a Senior in August.” he says, still half turned away from the broom showcasing witch.

“I know, I’m… Excited and afraid,” Lola tells Matias, murmuring: “I’d really like to be top of the class when I progress to seniority, but upsetting Eloa’s 4.0 GPA is hard. I’ve already missed two of the classes that might have gotten me there,” she reveals, clenching her fists around the broom with her frail, breakable little arms shivering from the effort. A pulse surrounds her body rather suddenly, like visible wavelengths in the air that almost seem to be calling to him, beckoning him forth to enact harm upon the tiny, weak, frail blonde. So easily violenced… What would she do to save herself? Cry out. Flail? Die….

“Do you think if I become a Senior in August, they’ll let me graduate in January??” she wonders, turning just in time to see the man crushing, or trying to, that wand in his hand. “Ma- P-Professor?” she wonders, wandering dangerously close and attempting to settle a hand on his shoulder as he casts the wand aside. “Are you okay? Do you feel well? Shall we go sit down?” she asks.

She’s so pretty. So breakable. Matias may begin to wonder if her bones sound like porcelain when shattered. This is all just a repeat of the full moon, is it not? She comes too close to such a dangerous man, and her face… Her face is so close, so small, easily grasped in one’s palm and…

“Do it,” rumbles a voice that is both inside of his head and out.
“What a soft little bird.”
“How can you say no to that face?/span>/span “That dark image… Smother it.”
“Crush it.”

seems distracted as Lola discusses her academic future and Eloa’s current leading of the pack for Juniors. Matias makes a non-commital *mmmhm* sound and he catches his left hand with the right. Rubbing at the palm as if soothing some cramp. His back to Lola his breathing deeper and clearly trying to calm himself… because of the hand cramp. “I think they have minimums. A year between each, but if you get Professor Kane’s support perhaps she can speak to the Provost?” he says trying to keep talking trying to keep distracted. When she touches his shoulder the bearded man rounds on her a reassuring… empty smile on his lips his left hand escaping the right and intertwining fingers with Lola. Warm to the touch, soft academic fingers, he draws her hand back down from his shoulder to about midchest height. “No… I do no want to sit.” his brazilian accent surfacing over his fairly fluent english.

His left hand intertwined with Lola’s gently begins to bend the slender hand of his companion back… back… back, the fingers then the wrist, turning it to get a wrist lock and then putting pressure forward… walking Lola back to the shelves they had just been exploring. Using the pain of a joint lock and uncomfortably bent back hand to compell her to backpedal and bump into the shelves. “You made a mistake earlier… Common mistake… I am no warlock, I do not innately access magics. You likened yourself to a wizard, I am the same, I have no grimoire, no spellbook… Do you know what I have?” he asks in a hushed baritone, as if teaching a class that empty smile of reassurance on his face, his left hand still hurting her, still using the joint lock to keep her against the shelves, possibly up on her toes to relieve some of the pressure.

“Oh, I’d be so happy if Miss Mirabel- AH- Ahh… Pro.. Professor…?” Lola asks subtly as Matias’s fingers link with her own- then squeeze, then twist, a romantic gesture turned into something excrutiating as she squeals and immediately rises up to her toes, stumbling back. “Hah… Professor you’re… You’re hurting me.. Oh… Oh Gods…” she whines, trying to keep her voice low so as to not draw attention, but there’s no masking the tiny tears welling up in her eyes. “Professor, please… Oh, please… I’m sorry- touch- touching your arm was inappropriate!!” she insists, begging for relief and release, assuming this is some form of punishment, tears streaming down her face now as she feels the sharp bite of a hardwood shelf against her spine, the little Faeling witch gasping for breath.

“I’m so sorry. I won’t happ.. It won’t happen again,” she corrects herself, her actions, her words. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry…” Always her fault, never anyone else’s. Always the victim, always the one making the mistake, it is her instinct to take responsibility for his actions as he hurts her, squirming and doing her best to figure out how to twist or flip to get herself free. But then he’s questioning her, and she continues to tearfully dance upon her toes as she responds, hoping for freedom. “I… I don’t know, sir… What… What do you have…? Malphas? That’s… You’re right. You’re not a Warlock, I’m sorry,” she insists, trying so desperately to figure out what she had done wrong.

“I am not… I am an Arcanist, like you, study… So much study but do you know what being Catholic teaches you?” Matias asks in a quiet baritone of a voice, stepping closer so not only can Lola not squirm away but the six foot tall man blocks her avenues of escape. His right hand reaching out to touch Lola’s throat in a mirroring of just a few days ago. His hand clasping around her throat even as she takes all the blame on herself. “Litany. Rhetoric. Memorization.” his right hand completely unaffected by the expanding chill and numbing tightens to make Lola’s breath come up short. “My rosary is my spell book… I have memorized the pattern imprinted on each bead. One for prayer… One for every spell I have committed by sheer will and memorization.” states with finality.

The right hand around Lola’s throat lets go and grabs the shelf as the bearded latino begins speaking spanish… Prayer… A prayer with a name Lamaru… Fallen… Cast down… In the name of the Father Son and Holy Ghost. The brass ring on his left hand which is currently twisting and bending Lola’s wrist and arm into a knot on the verge of popping tendons and snapping faeling bones suddenly has the iridescent gem embedded in it explode showering both their arms in gemshard and the ring glows an angry red the smell of seared flesh immediately filling the air as the arm lifts up and begins to try and strike Lola. left of her head, the shelf splinters books falling and hitting her and the bearded man before tumbling to the floor then grabbing her hair the burning ring causing the scent of burnt hair to come up only to suddenly spasm and twist… his right hand catches the left and the ring softened in its glowing red state is pulled off not by the figner but by the side leaving a burn ring on his pinky and searing his fingertips before falling away now useless exorcised brass on the floor, leaving a scorch mark and superficial if painful wounds on both of them… Falling to his knees he curls forward pulling his limbs close while hyperventilating the spanish prayer continuing another minute despite the cursed objects removal.

The witch screams in fright as Matias’s hand goes through the bookshelf right beside her head, splinters of wood tangling with flaxxen hair and tearing across her face, leaving minute, quickly-healed scratches behind whose only real damage is the sensation of pain and the brief scent of blood. “I’m sorry!!” she screams again, tears continuing to roll even after her wrist has been freed, the pathetic little thing starting to sink down only for Matias’s fingers to snag into her hair and pull her forward, dragging the faeling with him as they both collapse to the ground. She curls up into a bit of a ball in the process, grasping her fingers onto the professor’s shoulders as they take their tumble. He continues to pray, his fingers locked in her hair, both of them burning, and she looks to the mass of molten brass on the floor, breathing erratically as she tries to catch her breath, then throws herself forward, curling her curvy body around Matias and clinging to him as she shivers. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry…” she insists as he prays, tears streaming down her face as she tries to bury her face against his beard. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” she repeats, perhaps for different reasons now.