O (blackmagick) wrote in st_margarets, @ 2015-11-16 01:15:00 |
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It had been several days since the grounds of St. Margaret’s had shaken from a breach between worlds, and the deluge of magic at the school had jarred her, beginning to erode her long sleep. Her waking was at first like a sunrise behind closed eyelids - all orange-red and warm and increasingly difficult to ignore. She had been aware, dimly, that the time to rise had come early. It took her eight days to fully rouse and break through the flint-hard prison of her egg. There was a lovely Mediterranean breeze wafting through a vista window when her clawed left foot finally kicked through the side of her egg. The air felt divine on her wet skin and feathers. Talons followed, prying and clawing at the bronzed shell to widen her escape route. When there was enough of a fissure, she struggled to find purchase and drag herself forth into the dusty, abandoned room. It was a battle. Birth was frustrating and exhausting. She understood now why newborns sobbed and shortly after, slept like the dead. Choking and gasping for her first breaths, a stunning bird the color of Jason’s golden fleece tumbled out into the nest, landing in a mess of twigs and packing that stank of sulphur and burnt sage. As soon as the Phoenix’s feathers made contact with the air, they caught fire, burning away the damp and clinging contents of her egg. She shook herself, stretching fiery limbs as her egg, too, ignited and burned away to nothing. In seconds, there was no egg, no nest, no evidence that an Ash Ritual had been performed here at all but for cinders the breeze quickly seized and ushered out the open window in swirling dervishes. Then, she was alone. Excepting a few pieces of furniture draped in white dust covers, the room was empty. It … wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? Someone was supposed to be here. Someone was supposed to meet her, to help. Who had it been? She was distressed to find that she couldn’t remember. Her head hurt and everything felt a bit fuzzy. Her feathers rankled irritably. Abruptly, she shifted forms, as if to distance herself from the experience. The new Virginia Blackfoot took a moment to appraise herself. She flexed and curled her toes, then effortlessly rose to the point of her tiptoes, bowing her feet to test her new body’s capacity for what was physically most important to her; dance. She made a small sound of approval. Sufficient. Even extraordinary, once properly stretched. Strong calves, stable knees, a slim composition at the hip; this was looking promising. Ginny arched her neck and stole a look at her own backside, contorting her mouth in genuine, surprised approval. “That's a perk.” She almost jumped. “That’s my voice. That’s my voice,” she repeated slowly, listening to the odd new pitch and inflection benefit from the acoustics of a barren room. Her old speaking voice had been vaguely raspy and low, even a touch nasal. Not so anymore. “This is so strange.” Thank goodness the Ash Ritual was a process only repeated every few centuries. The oddity of all of this made her feel like a child in uncharted territory - a feeling that had long ago become foreign to her. “Excuse me, Madame. If you’re quite finished…” Ginny did jump then. Her pupils snapped vertically; black lines narrowed in a ripple of bright gold. “Sarah, you frightened me,” Gin sighed, both relieved and a twinge embarrassed when she spotted the spectral outline of a deceased kitchen staffer glide through a wall at the far side of the room. How long had she been watching? To preserve modesty, Gin quickly tugged a dust cover free of a Sofa nearby. “Lovely to see you again. How long have I been gone? What’s the date?” she asked, wrapping herself in the heavy white fabric. Obnoxiously, her impeccable posture almost made it look like a gown. “And yourself, Madame. It’s been ten months. November 15th. A Sunday, as it were. You’re quite a bit earlier than expected.” “Many thanks..” Gin pursed her lips, displeased. She had hoped hers would be a brief cycle. Weeks, at most. What a horribly inefficient system, the cycle of rebirth. “And the school? All’s well I trust?” As all her parts and pieces seemed to be in order, the state of the school played second fiddle to nothing on her list of importance. “Been better, I’m afraid. There was an attack last weekend. Handled in fine fashion, thankfully. Everything’s still a bit of a mess.” Gin was already headed for the door, out into the labyrinthine halls of the main building in search of an exit to the campus grounds. She was no powerhouse in a fight, but the thought that she’d been absent while the school was under attack bound her stomach in knots. It was paramount that she let Ms. Menides know she’d returned, collect herself and offer help wherever she could be of use. Immediately. “The students? Staff? Everyone’s alright?” She asked of her ghostly companion as the two hastened through the halls. In cheerier circumstances, she would have been amused by keeping company with a ghost while dressed in a white sheet, particularly so soon after All Hallow’s Eve. But not now. “A Druid is in a coma, of sorts. No other serious injuries.” Shaking her head, Gin made a clicking noise with her tongue, ignoring a wall of mirrors close to the greeting hall and a momentary glimpse of a stranger’s face that floated by in its reflection. Later. There would be time for that later. She passed the threshold, pushing through the heavy front doors into the cold afternoon. Her eyes darted about; between the new scattering of trees dotting the lawn and courtyards, to the campus buildings under reconstruction and the notable lack of student activity she’d come to expect of a weekend. She clutched the dust cover more tightly around her shoulders, determining which route to take in order to make the least spectacle of herself. What strange circumstances to come home too; but home, she was. |