The Maddening Mage

[Vexademus]

The lone generic candle flickered, the singular flame looking as though it was mocking the magess. The shadow she cast was all her wet sunken eyes stared at, hollow gaze stapled to the black doppelganger residing on HIS library wall. Her brain only swam with the memory of her familiar; her heart drowning. If only her shadow would emit that comforting purr or remind her with an indignant chuff. Absent fingers rose to a brown lock scored through with blackened strands to twist about in a curling fashion; strict from her temple. She shifted inside those elaborate robe-dress so gifted to her by her mentor; Infernis, touching the hidden pin attached on the inside of the fabric that usually lay directly against her skin. A smile, cruel and ironic, licked her lips as she thought of how her lynx had been so watchful over her, so protective.

Vexademus relived the torture of that final moment again and again. That instant that Theron had ceased. A scratchy scream that sounded like large grit sandpaper scratching one hundred diamonds only to leave a mist that hung illicitly about as if demanding guilt from the spellshaper for her inability to defend herself or her companion. That demonic sound was forever etched into her soul; a sign that hung to declare the empty space that her familiar resided in. The very image was like a poison barb stuck into her skin, only spreading when the tool was yanked about freshly. Mouth thick while her eyes simply drooled those tears without care, their salty balm doing nothing to quell the magess while she wept without sound.

In the week that followed her wake from the shocking coma of Theron's disbondment, and in the care of a great healer named Lindor, she had many visits with acquaintances and friends. There were those that pledged vengeance and those that promptly 'tsked her for being such a weak dullard. A fool. Poor and pitiful. Then there were some that bade her to wish out loud what she wanted done with the creature that had perpetrated such a cruel act. And the mageling couldn't help herself. With all the ignorant malice of a spoiled child, she'd stomped her foot with her words, demanding the man's tongue on a chain; a trophy so that she could touch it and think of his pain. So she could smell it while it rotted. A medal of elitist madness to wear to remind herself that since something precious had been stolen from her, the spellshaper could indeed take something in payment. Then the brutality grew. Offers of the murderer's life forfeit invaded her brain, fantasies of agonized cries and whispers of his heart blissfully slowing at her command. Such an ambrosia that continued to taste better and more sweet as she favored them.

And all Vexademus had to do was to say the words. To admit that she wanted it. To admit out loud how much she craved it with hedonistic abandon.

Where was her reason? What happened to her rationality? To know that one deed leads to a return in karma? Another twist was given to her hair in slow conviction. Vexademus blamed herself anyways; why should any kind of retribution bother her?

Again with her words, a repetition that shivered up her throat in a mixture of resolution and sorrow...

"I wish it."