[ got no salvation / got no religion ]
WHO: witchsupreme thelaughingmage
WHAT: Magic people doing magic!
WHERE: somewhere in a gutter in New York
WHEN: Evening
WARNINGS: just look at who is in this log. just. look.
For Nico, magic was all about masochism. She'd learned early on that magic didn't hinge on incantations and secret spells---at least not for her. Her brand of magic, her ugly dark mess of a heritage, fed off of pain. The more she hurt, the stronger she got; the more she was able to hurt, the stronger her spells. She rode the fine line of emotional and physical collapse, because that danger zone was her at her best. Nico would call up feelings that most people struggled to keep buried deep---jealousy, rage, failure, loneliness, agony, worthlessness---and mold them until they were fine and sharp and painful. Then she let it explode, and out came magic. She could do anything and everything she could imagine, but only if she felt like shit.
Time deadened things. She could take more, but old wounds scabbed over and weren't as effective. She always had to have some kind of fresh cut, but (thankfully?) her luck provided plenty of fodder.
And that was why she was at the club, scoping the crowd for a brand new way to hurt. Once in a while, she made rough passes at doing her job---keeping an eye on the balance of the big picture and guiding a stupid human or two off the wrong path. The man she had been keeping in her periphery for a couple of weeks fit the bill for both charity work and "personal time". He was the son of a wealthy so and so, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a complete apathy toward the rest of humanity. He would have been just another spoiled yuppy, had he not had a healthy interest in select occult literature.
If you have your ear to the ground, you usually can see it coming when a nutjob decides to ring one of the Old Ones up for tea.
WHAT: Magic people doing magic!
WHERE: somewhere in a gutter in New York
WHEN: Evening
WARNINGS: just look at who is in this log. just. look.
For Nico, magic was all about masochism. She'd learned early on that magic didn't hinge on incantations and secret spells---at least not for her. Her brand of magic, her ugly dark mess of a heritage, fed off of pain. The more she hurt, the stronger she got; the more she was able to hurt, the stronger her spells. She rode the fine line of emotional and physical collapse, because that danger zone was her at her best. Nico would call up feelings that most people struggled to keep buried deep---jealousy, rage, failure, loneliness, agony, worthlessness---and mold them until they were fine and sharp and painful. Then she let it explode, and out came magic. She could do anything and everything she could imagine, but only if she felt like shit.
Time deadened things. She could take more, but old wounds scabbed over and weren't as effective. She always had to have some kind of fresh cut, but (thankfully?) her luck provided plenty of fodder.
And that was why she was at the club, scoping the crowd for a brand new way to hurt. Once in a while, she made rough passes at doing her job---keeping an eye on the balance of the big picture and guiding a stupid human or two off the wrong path. The man she had been keeping in her periphery for a couple of weeks fit the bill for both charity work and "personal time". He was the son of a wealthy so and so, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a complete apathy toward the rest of humanity. He would have been just another spoiled yuppy, had he not had a healthy interest in select occult literature.
If you have your ear to the ground, you usually can see it coming when a nutjob decides to ring one of the Old Ones up for tea.