#crista looking at a sincere emotion: what the hell is that. I don't want it

[cloudbattrolls]

Hocus Pocus

Crista Condyl | Mirael University | Present Night

This almost certainly wasn’t going to work, but honestly, the idea of it working was almost scarier than the thought of it flopping hilariously like a dead fish. That they could deal with; actual success was…it would just be weird, honestly.

Crista had laid out dozens of sheets of paper, all magically stuck together on the floor to make a giant place to draw on in the college studio building they were definitely allowed to be in. 

It was a cozy place, mostly midblooded, a bunch of olives and teals with a sparse few yellows as assistants. The building was well-heated and well lit, clean and with little dust, all dark old wood and fine carvings. 

No maroons, no bronzes. Of course not. Not on these hallowed artistic grounds, even as cleaners; the place had robots for that. Maintenance drones for everything else, and blood temperature scanners on the polished doors. Fancy shmancy pricks the lot of them were.

So a silence spell and a forgetfulness ward on the door (and the windows, despite being a few floors up it paid to be careful) had graciously allowed their rustblooded mug to have some peace, quiet, and space to work.

A soft red glow - almost indistinguishable from their magic, but if one looked closely, this luminosity had the distinctly sparky quality of psiionics - levitated several pencils across the makeshift canvas at once, scribbling as Crista pursed their lips.

Pencils scratched across paper and erasers, added to the flock of utensils, rubbed across errors, making dozens of adjustments at once.

“That’s not a bad start.” They murmured to themself, looking over the plans and rough-sketched magical diagrams. 

“Not bad at all…I need inspiration, though. This isn’t my usual. Which is why it’s going to be so annoying to do! But imagine if I can pull it off, though I doubt she’ll care much…I’ll care.”

Smart, pretty girls rarely cared what they did. Catill would be no exception. But she was fun, good company, and while they were beneath her notice magically there was no reason they couldn’t enjoy themself with a good show.

They psiionically plucked one utensil from the mass - the rest they laid to rest, to the side of the papers - and zipped it back to their hand. They began writing a list with it on a small notepad, white with blue lines.

“Recordings of that music she likes…some nice scents…bones…ooh, should I add some touch aspects? I should…get it nice and eerie…what some unsettling statues? I hate such things, she’ll probably like them…listen to me, planning all this, going to take nights…” They said with a theatrical groan.

“I could be doing smarter things with my time!” They complained to themself. “So why don’t I?”

Stupidity, that was why. Sheer rank dumbness like one might find in an addled grub bonking into walls. 

Silly Crista. In stories, witches never paid any mind to wizards, except to trick or curse them! 

They flopped down on their back on the wooden floor. It wasn’t overly comfortable, but they didn’t care too much at the moment. Their hair splayed out on the floorboards as they looked up through their glasses. 

The studio ceiling held a large, beautiful mural, possibly also painted by telekinetics, given the right pain in the neck it would be to get up there the mundane way and stay steady. It depicted several highbloods hunting with their lusii, chasing down foxes and other prey. How very typical.

Crista didn’t even hate highbloods. What was the point? Might as well hate the sun for all the good it did you. 

It was just perpetually obnoxious how prioritized they were, solely for the accomplishment of existing.

Even Kormut…Cyvell had favored him instead, and he’d barely done anything.

They begrudgingly admitted to themself they couldn’t stay mad at him. He was too annoyingly nice. Too hopeful despite all logic saying he shouldn’t have any. Too…ugh…endearing.

Why had they thought of him, back in the town with the werewolf and the terrifying hunter…?

Oh you know what? Never mind all that, goodbye. Danger, Troll Will Robinson!

Crista took out a packet of crisps and began eating it vigorously. They needed energy, they had work to do.

—

“Ooh, I hate this.” They groaned, a few nights later, working out yet another boring depth calculation for their planned illusion.

Though they couldn’t even completely call it that anymore, as it had quickly gotten out of hand. They were adding some genuine physical elements! Wooo!

Bleugh.

Magic naturally involved some math - it was silly to expect it to have none - but the mock-ups and measurements they’d had to do for this had resulted in many a crumpled paper in frustration.

They also had to calculate how to reduce how much power it would take and how to make it play nice with every other part of the illusion so things didn’t fall apart like a rush job on a janky printing press.

Not that they needed it to last all that long, but if it started unraveling while Catill was still in it they should just change their name and teleport away on the spot.

“Why do you bother, Condyl…” they muttered to themself, flapping their hand that had cramped from all the writing and adjusting, fingers smudged with eraser and pencil marks.

“What makes her so special, hm? You might as well try to impress the moons. Setting yourself up for failure, yet again.”

Maybe it was the unattainability that made it compelling. No chance of success, but you might as well see how far you got. May as well test your skills, hm? 

They knew where they stood, so the danger was minimal. The chance to show off was too tempting.

Sigh-laughing at themself, they got back to work.

—

Crista stood in a trick room. With a basement. And an attic.

Illusory, yet not entirely. Dimensions warped, dark and eerie, humid and mind-bending, yet not entirely unpleasant: herbal scents, folk music playing. Subtle horrors; statues whose expressions changed and came closer, faces rising in the starry void walls and ceiling only to fade away. 

Furniture that crawled slightly under the skin, floors that let off multicolored bubbles with warped shapes. 

Possibly she’d only laugh at such things.

But pure gore and scares weren’t their style. They could hex, curse a bit - but only if they were truly in danger. Even then, it was unpleasant. It made them shudder, thanks to their cursed weakness.

It shouldn’t be hard to attack, to protect themself! So why was it? 

Catill could face anything…they sensed it on her, the faint touch of the eldritch. Perhaps that should have made them run, if they’d had more sense…

But she was a mage. And she didn’t disdain them.

Anyway! 

They’d created this thing from blood, sweat, and tears and it still made them feel a little woozy if they spent too long in it. 

At least they had confirmed they’d be able to keep it up for a solid five minutes or so, if somewhat by jury-rigging a bunch of spell anchors with premade magical energy sources. 

Now to pack it all up and take it with them! They’d already sent her a note to make sure she’d be free.

Oh, yes, she had a phone - but a personal note in the form of an animated paper cat was better.

Meet them in the woods tonight to witness a little magic, all that good hocus pocus nonsense.

Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t. It never did to assume a cat would come simply because you asked her to.

But who knew?

She might.