Post by lilbluebox on Aug 21, 2016 17:37:22 GMT -6
Deserts did not usually see the aether twist itself open and open a gateway between spacetime to allow a woman dressed most outlandishly to step through, nor for that same woman to sew the aether back together with a snap of her gloved fingers, but this particular desert had seen more than its fair share of oddities in its time. Really, this was nothing compared to the mage-induced blizzard of '00, or the population of sandwyrms the newcomer would no doubt be forced to keep an eye on. Mating season, after all, was close at hand, and they were likely to be in the area.
Under normal circumstances, the mating habits of the sandwyrm might have been to interest to Gracechurch Turnbuckle, but such was not the case today. With a frown, she jabbed her glasses further up her nose and peered closely at the aether as the turmoil from her own disturbance died down. "You," she muttered to herself as she reached inside her bag and uncorked a vial, which she used to scoop up a pinch of magically infused sand, "have been a very bad boy, Mr. Turner."
Into another bottle went a whisper of aether itself before the woman took out several odd instruments and began the fiddly business of gauging air pressure, magical disturbance, seismic activity and so forth. With stern humphs for her soundtrack, she jotted down each number carefully into a journal, her frown growing ever more pronounced with each tidbit of information she gathered. The sad truth of the matter was that it was looking increasingly like this job was going to take much, much longer than she had anticipated. Not that she'd much of a problem with that, truth be told - but her mother would kill her if she were late for tea again.
Gracechurch snorted inelegantly. Late. Ha! She'd miss it entirely at this rate.
"Really, I should be thanking you, I suppose," she sighed as she got on with the fiddly business of sketching runes into the sand to track the blasted moron to his next jump. "Mother's gotten incredibly infuriating as of late. I wouldn't want to place bets on who would survive the next fight we get into."
Under normal circumstances, the mating habits of the sandwyrm might have been to interest to Gracechurch Turnbuckle, but such was not the case today. With a frown, she jabbed her glasses further up her nose and peered closely at the aether as the turmoil from her own disturbance died down. "You," she muttered to herself as she reached inside her bag and uncorked a vial, which she used to scoop up a pinch of magically infused sand, "have been a very bad boy, Mr. Turner."
Into another bottle went a whisper of aether itself before the woman took out several odd instruments and began the fiddly business of gauging air pressure, magical disturbance, seismic activity and so forth. With stern humphs for her soundtrack, she jotted down each number carefully into a journal, her frown growing ever more pronounced with each tidbit of information she gathered. The sad truth of the matter was that it was looking increasingly like this job was going to take much, much longer than she had anticipated. Not that she'd much of a problem with that, truth be told - but her mother would kill her if she were late for tea again.
Gracechurch snorted inelegantly. Late. Ha! She'd miss it entirely at this rate.
"Really, I should be thanking you, I suppose," she sighed as she got on with the fiddly business of sketching runes into the sand to track the blasted moron to his next jump. "Mother's gotten incredibly infuriating as of late. I wouldn't want to place bets on who would survive the next fight we get into."