Noblesse Oblige
WHO: Berwald and Tino
WHEN: Monday, October 18th, late evening
WHERE: Some forgotten room in the dungeons
WARNINGS: Blood. Ahem. Like Berwald needed to add cutting to his emo status...I'D But, it's only for practical purposes! *hexed* Also Merlin's beard it got long. o_o;
WHAT: Berwald is practicing his family's creepy ancient and secret galder magic, and is interrupted by Tino. Or possibly the other way around.
After his slight detour earlier that evening while looking for a place to practice using the galder runes, Berwald had ended up in the dungeons, in an abandoned room some way away from the more often used parts of the school. It looked rather like it might have once been used as a storage cellar, but had long been empty. The floor and walls were of uneven, dusty stone, with the ceiling arching above in a low arch. The air was cold, and smelled faintly of damp, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
In any case, Berwald wasn't there for the decor. He needed a place away from the other denizens of the school. For one because the magic he was about to practice was a secret passed down in his family since before even their own records extended (which was since over nine hundred years ago and thus no mean feat). And secondly, and almost equally importantly to Berwald himself, he found it all rather embarrassing.
Still, family traditions had to be maintained, his mother would skin him alive if he didn't, and if this worked it might actually even be useful. For once.
With that in mind, Berwald sighed resignedly, before steeling himself and stripped out of first his cloak, and then his vest and shirt too. He shivered, the sudden contact with the cold air causing goosebumps to rise all over his upper half.
Then, Berwald took out a small bowl, brush, a few small bottles with various substances and a knife in a decorated leather scabbard. Berwald measured small amounts from each bottle into the bowl and mixed them into a fairly thick syrupy liquid, careful to get the consistency right before the picked up the knife and pulled it out of the scabbard.
It was a small family heirloom, the handle of intricately carved bone, worn from the many hands that had gripped it, while the blade had a wicked gleam to it. It was very sharp, and if one looked closely, the bone handle was just slightly stained, with faint rusty stains that had sunk deep into the material. On second look, had anyone been there to look, the bowl too seemed to be made of blood, with a circular but suspiciously not quite perfectly round shape...it was another heirloom, from way back.
Berwald laid all these out on a clean cloth in front of him, kneeling on the cold floor.
Then, he took out a bottle of disinfectant, bandaids and a small wad of bandages, the muggle packages looking rather odd next to the ancient tools next to them, and set out to wipe the blade of the knife with the disinfectant. By then, his face was set in stoic concentration, his movements unhurried and smooth, practiced.
When he had determined the blade was clean, Berwald held his arm over the bowl and pressed the sharp blade against his skin with studied deliberation. His expression didn't even flicked as the skin parted and drops of blood welled from the wound, falling down into the bowl. The slight pain was easily ignored, he had been practising the ritual since he was much younger, after all.
Sometimes he wondered if this could actually be considered dark magic...the only time he'd dared to ask his mother she'd scoffed at him, declaring that the ritual went far back beyond such silly defintions. Oddly enough it hadn't really reassured Berwald that much...maybe he'd ask Sindre about it someday. He was smart. But before that, Berwald reasoned that as long as it was only his own blood he was using it couldn't do much harm.
He brough his concentration back to the present when enough blood had dripped down into the mix, wiping the wound on his arm and applying a bandage on it before cleaning the knife again and putting it back in it's scabbard. Next...spit, and then the blood paint was ready to be mixed.
With that stage dealt with and all unneccessary supplies packed out of the way (not really a requirement of the ritual but it helped Berwald concentrate, which was), he took up the brush and dipped it into the mixture in the bowl, using it to paint a pattern built up from the repetition of a single rune in an complicated pattern. It was not the easiest thing to paint perfectly straight, even lines on skin, let alone your own, and Berwald was no artist, but he had practiced this. He had practiced it until his fingers cramped. Like his mother said, he wouldn't be good enough until he could do it in the dark, riding a broomstick. And it would be perfect.
He hesitated only a moment before touching the brush to his skin, not quite sure which area of his body would be best for his purpose. In the end he chose the area between chest and stomach, the furthest edges of the pattern extending over both areas. Perhaps the effect would be most...centered, then.
When that was done with too, the deep red lines crossing his skin, Berwald put away the bowl and brush too, and stood up, shaking away the stiffness caused by cold and his kneeling position. He found a steady position to stand in, feet slightly apart and planted firmly on the flagstones, took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes.
The sound of the chant began as a low rumble deep in his chest, like distant thunder, slowly gaining volume. It had words, in a very old languages few things living or dead would have been able to understand...and even if they could, they would have found it difficult to parse the individual words from the chant, despite the volume at which Berwald was evoking it. There was a rhythm and even a tune of sorts to it too, but you couldn't have danced to it. It was complicated and unmelodic enough to sound as if it might as well have been completely random. It wasn't, but a strong voice was the most important thing, really. And that was something Berwald could produce, when he needed to.
Finally, the last note of the chant died away, echoing for a moment more in the stone room and along the hallway outside. Berwald's arms were folded across his chest, his eyes still closed. There was a strange feeling of warmth...not physical, but mental warmth, enveloping him like an embrace. When he'd arrived here, he had been feeling rather dispirited over the events of the last day, but now he was feeling almost euphoric. Nothing had changed, he was still who he was and nothing was likely to change...but right at that moment it didnn't bother him in the least. It was a rather new feeling for him.
Berwald felt even more pleased when he realized this all meant he'd succeeded in reading the rune, and rather well too if he was any judge. If he'd made it any stronger he'd be giggling like a schoolgirl, Berwald thought whimsically and felt one corner of his mouth twitch slightly into a little smirk, before he controlled himself.
And then, as he was still basking in artificial glow of a succesful uruz, Berwald realized he wasn't alone.
WHEN: Monday, October 18th, late evening
WHERE: Some forgotten room in the dungeons
WARNINGS: Blood. Ahem. Like Berwald needed to add cutting to his emo status...I'D But, it's only for practical purposes! *hexed* Also Merlin's beard it got long. o_o;
WHAT: Berwald is practicing his family's creepy ancient and secret galder magic, and is interrupted by Tino. Or possibly the other way around.
After his slight detour earlier that evening while looking for a place to practice using the galder runes, Berwald had ended up in the dungeons, in an abandoned room some way away from the more often used parts of the school. It looked rather like it might have once been used as a storage cellar, but had long been empty. The floor and walls were of uneven, dusty stone, with the ceiling arching above in a low arch. The air was cold, and smelled faintly of damp, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been.
In any case, Berwald wasn't there for the decor. He needed a place away from the other denizens of the school. For one because the magic he was about to practice was a secret passed down in his family since before even their own records extended (which was since over nine hundred years ago and thus no mean feat). And secondly, and almost equally importantly to Berwald himself, he found it all rather embarrassing.
Still, family traditions had to be maintained, his mother would skin him alive if he didn't, and if this worked it might actually even be useful. For once.
With that in mind, Berwald sighed resignedly, before steeling himself and stripped out of first his cloak, and then his vest and shirt too. He shivered, the sudden contact with the cold air causing goosebumps to rise all over his upper half.
Then, Berwald took out a small bowl, brush, a few small bottles with various substances and a knife in a decorated leather scabbard. Berwald measured small amounts from each bottle into the bowl and mixed them into a fairly thick syrupy liquid, careful to get the consistency right before the picked up the knife and pulled it out of the scabbard.
It was a small family heirloom, the handle of intricately carved bone, worn from the many hands that had gripped it, while the blade had a wicked gleam to it. It was very sharp, and if one looked closely, the bone handle was just slightly stained, with faint rusty stains that had sunk deep into the material. On second look, had anyone been there to look, the bowl too seemed to be made of blood, with a circular but suspiciously not quite perfectly round shape...it was another heirloom, from way back.
Berwald laid all these out on a clean cloth in front of him, kneeling on the cold floor.
Then, he took out a bottle of disinfectant, bandaids and a small wad of bandages, the muggle packages looking rather odd next to the ancient tools next to them, and set out to wipe the blade of the knife with the disinfectant. By then, his face was set in stoic concentration, his movements unhurried and smooth, practiced.
When he had determined the blade was clean, Berwald held his arm over the bowl and pressed the sharp blade against his skin with studied deliberation. His expression didn't even flicked as the skin parted and drops of blood welled from the wound, falling down into the bowl. The slight pain was easily ignored, he had been practising the ritual since he was much younger, after all.
Sometimes he wondered if this could actually be considered dark magic...the only time he'd dared to ask his mother she'd scoffed at him, declaring that the ritual went far back beyond such silly defintions. Oddly enough it hadn't really reassured Berwald that much...maybe he'd ask Sindre about it someday. He was smart. But before that, Berwald reasoned that as long as it was only his own blood he was using it couldn't do much harm.
He brough his concentration back to the present when enough blood had dripped down into the mix, wiping the wound on his arm and applying a bandage on it before cleaning the knife again and putting it back in it's scabbard. Next...spit, and then the blood paint was ready to be mixed.
With that stage dealt with and all unneccessary supplies packed out of the way (not really a requirement of the ritual but it helped Berwald concentrate, which was), he took up the brush and dipped it into the mixture in the bowl, using it to paint a pattern built up from the repetition of a single rune in an complicated pattern. It was not the easiest thing to paint perfectly straight, even lines on skin, let alone your own, and Berwald was no artist, but he had practiced this. He had practiced it until his fingers cramped. Like his mother said, he wouldn't be good enough until he could do it in the dark, riding a broomstick. And it would be perfect.
He hesitated only a moment before touching the brush to his skin, not quite sure which area of his body would be best for his purpose. In the end he chose the area between chest and stomach, the furthest edges of the pattern extending over both areas. Perhaps the effect would be most...centered, then.
When that was done with too, the deep red lines crossing his skin, Berwald put away the bowl and brush too, and stood up, shaking away the stiffness caused by cold and his kneeling position. He found a steady position to stand in, feet slightly apart and planted firmly on the flagstones, took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes.
The sound of the chant began as a low rumble deep in his chest, like distant thunder, slowly gaining volume. It had words, in a very old languages few things living or dead would have been able to understand...and even if they could, they would have found it difficult to parse the individual words from the chant, despite the volume at which Berwald was evoking it. There was a rhythm and even a tune of sorts to it too, but you couldn't have danced to it. It was complicated and unmelodic enough to sound as if it might as well have been completely random. It wasn't, but a strong voice was the most important thing, really. And that was something Berwald could produce, when he needed to.
Finally, the last note of the chant died away, echoing for a moment more in the stone room and along the hallway outside. Berwald's arms were folded across his chest, his eyes still closed. There was a strange feeling of warmth...not physical, but mental warmth, enveloping him like an embrace. When he'd arrived here, he had been feeling rather dispirited over the events of the last day, but now he was feeling almost euphoric. Nothing had changed, he was still who he was and nothing was likely to change...but right at that moment it didnn't bother him in the least. It was a rather new feeling for him.
Berwald felt even more pleased when he realized this all meant he'd succeeded in reading the rune, and rather well too if he was any judge. If he'd made it any stronger he'd be giggling like a schoolgirl, Berwald thought whimsically and felt one corner of his mouth twitch slightly into a little smirk, before he controlled himself.
And then, as he was still basking in artificial glow of a succesful uruz, Berwald realized he wasn't alone.