WRITER’S NOTE:

These short stories are written in unison between Tashi (@khian.bsky.social) & I. The style of writing is RP and sectioned as such. Cayto is written by Tashi, and Lohkri is written by me, Cillian.

A lot of you have probably wondered why Cayto wears his gloves 95% of the time. Well, here’s why. Keep in mind Tashi and I are still working on lore between these two and each story may seem like it jumps around at times. This one is the first we wrote between them, and it’s a bit lengthy, so buckle up. Angst and drama is served.

Tashi/Cayto: 💜

Cillian/Lohkri: 🧡

Rating: T

7600 Word Count

💜💜

His lynx-ears moved a tiny bit back when he began to free his hands from the tight black gloves. The scholar’s face showed no distress, but his purple-hazel eyes did, seemingly focused elsewhere, not looking at the Seeker Miqo’te next to him.

“I know you may not take me for the reckless type. Or that mistakes are beyond me because I think too much.” His voice sounded as calm and composed as ever. The same smooth tone he gives sarcastic answers with, or orders food with.

The ears with the noticeable white soft tuft in them twitched when Cayto looked at his bare palms now, elegant fingers in slight curls. With a sigh and a clear spark of trust in his eyes, he tilted them a bit towards Lohkri while he continued.

“We all make mistakes. Some earlier, some later. I did mine about 8 years ago in the restricted archives in Sharlayan. It takes a long time to get permission to be allowed to read what’s hidden there. And when I finally had it, I went there and left my caution behind. I was searching for a way to enhance my handling of black magic. As you know, this magic is destructive. Powerful. It bites when you don’t steel your mind and body against it. I won’t bore you with too much details about being a mage, but everyone needs a focus. A vessel the aether can build up in, turn into a destructive spell or a soothing rain. And I had always been proud that my own body was this vessel. It’s not that rare among magic wielders, but with black magic it just takes an abnormal amount of discipline, control, and strength. So, when I was down there… in the archive… I found what I was looking for and, proud as I was, I channeled this ancient power, this new palpable amplifier written in those tomes that I understood and deciphered way too easily. Instead of being cautious and reasonable, and using a staff or scepter or literally anything else as vessel for this channeling of aether, I reached out my hands and used my body. Just like I always did.”

An eerie calmness sounds in his voice, together with a spark of anger. Towards himself, most likely. He doesn’t sound ashamed or regretful. He is perfectly aware of why and how it happened and the consequences his own arrogance had that day.

When Lohkri looks at Cayto’s palms, he sees very soft but prominent scars that form like a swirl towards the center of each palm. The scars have a dark purple color, like a fresh bruise, and seem curiously old and new at the same time, some lower “arms” of the swirls already curl towards the wrists. In the center there is a rather small dot covered with a thin layer of healed skin, and underneath it a dark, purple-black… hole? Cayto’s hands are not pierced, their backsides looking perfectly normal, but the center-dot of the palms give the impression of something leading inside the hand.

“I couldn’t control it and … the good news was, it did as intended: it enhanced my spell power. The bad news was, that my own magic sees its former vessel — my body — as an enemy now. The symbiosis, the balance, was broken. I can still channel my aether, even cast a spell. But when I do so without my staff as a focus, it backlashes. It bites, it tears. And believe me, I tried that enough to know how it hurts.” He gives a weak smile that doesn’t ask for any pity, his eyes looking at Lohkri while he still stands tall and content.