With the undisputed patience of a dignified listener, she waited for him to finish. Drinking in every last word she let the description of his past - the family of horrors, the spine-chilling sacrifice and the repeated ceremonies. Blood boiled in her like it did beneath the surface of his pale flesh, a myriad of reds and pinks that curved and snaked their way like gang tattoos. But she could see the truth in them, and the truth in the crude slice that had been carved from his soul in the process - for he was in pain, both spiritually and psychologically, his past scarring him in the same way his cult had him physically.
It was intriguing to note that he spoke of himself in the third person. That the story was of, "the child," only moving to "my" and "me" when the connection to his harmed soul came to be known. When the part that affected him perhaps the most, that human sacrifice that he very likely had felt some guilt over in life, came into the narration it was suddenly his tale. Not some distant person from a fantastic novel. Instead it was him, it was his life, his pain. That which he had been trying to avoid to admit came with the full force of the admittance that his soul was truly not complete ... or rather it was too complete. It had another soul, another existence, pulling at it, and so many wrongdoings else scarring him. All wounding Nevin's soul through the unnatural ritual of blood magic, and the taint of a terrifying childhood. Giving him another man's life to endure. Becoming "me" when two identities had been merged, when he had truly become ... him. And not the person before.
She opened her beak to speak when he had told the result of the ritual, and what he had done post. With her body full of questions, and likely many more at the other end of the presence she could not read the emotions of but could feel the weight off, she took a breath in - but was cut off as the alchemist continued.
"... It sings to me, you know, sings when exposed blood is nearby - the blood upon you is a faint hum, a gentle susurration that scratches at the back of my mind. Whatever else the rituals intended to do, make me a vessel perhaps, or just change me into what I am now…. I can, to some degree, manipulate blood. ..."
He ... is a blood mage, came the awed, quiet voice of Vitruvion.
And it made Stare going equally as speechless. Rare was it that anyone ever made the god become stunned. In his more than one hundred years of life, and with all the experiences he had seen of his father literally making life, Vitruvion was rarely shocked. It was in his nature to be above all surprise, above all shock. So when his voice came through like a mouse's, Stare was lost also. All of her questions vanished to meaninglessness, as she began to understand the potential power behind what had happened to Nevin.
I do not think so but ... check if he is lying.
Just as curious, Stare slipped into her aura sight. Still there was the light green halo around the alchemist, as well as the tear that was slowly fizzling out of sight right now. But also there was the pulsing light of an honest and true person, coming directly from his heart.
Which meant there was no doubt about it.
The gods be damned ... Vitruvion whispered. Maybe there is nothing I can do for him after all.
Stare slowly returned back to her normal vision. She apologetically bowed her head slightly to Nevin before offering a small sigh.
"I am sorry I made you tell me that," she replied. "But thank you. It is an honour to be in the presence of someone who has the potential for so much power ... but I have to apologise. He thinks he might not be able to help after all. It is ... complicated, blood magic is, of what the little I know of it ..." she smiled in her eyes and visibly relaxed a lot.
"Maybe then I need to tell you more about what I can do? But I am afraid to say it is not so as exciting."
