Silverfish

Taste of the Majik

"I don't really know anything about this sort of thing, but trust me when I say we were just passing through, just visitors from the neighboring town," Donnie claims, turning to face Mars.

Mars briefly acknowledges his statement with a confirmative nod, planting himself on either side of the others. His protective aura seemed to intimidate them, all except for his lover.

"I've got reason to believe you're just trespassing on our territory. Convince me otherwise or you loose both of your hands," Alva says with a certain apathy.

She could do that well, Mars thought.

Donnie cocks his head to the side in confusion, his gaze nervously darting about the others, "Woah, wait, you're gonna cut off their hands?"

She scoffs, "This doesn't concern mortals."

Mars shakes his head and lets out a sharp, breathy laugh, "You're a fool, Alva. He's not mortal, he's a witch, just like the rest of us."

Mars was lying, of course, but Alva didn't know that.

She steps up onto the pedestal in front of them, staring down at the group of young witches (and one human), her confidence presiding over everything else. Without a word, she conjures the majik, her eyes rolling back to a ghostly white, hands contorting into sacred gestures, a determined wind began to twist between them. This was what Donnie had been warned about, this was what he was never meant to see.

Of course that was the fault of none other than Mars, the terrible lover himself. He'd been somewhat unintentionally responsible for Donnie's safety and well-being ever since he'd quite literally fallen into that awful romantic trap. This was all still very strange and unfamiliar to him, considering this was perhaps the first time he'd ever really cared about someone other than himself.