Meet Sandhya

Prelude

A dark, cluttered workshop was filled with strange contraptions and piled high with worn books and handwritten notes. There was barely enough room to breathe comfortably among the tottering piles threatining to fall over at any moment, never mind work, but the owner of the place mannaged.

The owner bent over a large streach of heavy yellow paper - parchment, strangely enough- and was muttering to themself. "You've left me with no choice," the person grumbled irritably. It was not clear as to whom the owner was speaking to, as they were the only person in the workshop. Perhaps they were speaking to an invisible spectator, or perhaps God? Regardless of any audience, seen or unseen, the owner continued to toil away.

A old fashioned feather quill, heavy with ink, danced delicately across the off-white surface. A unidentifiable color, neither black nor indigo nor violet, a color that was darker than the shadows at midnight, bleed onto the smooth paper. Slowly but surely, a strange pentagram filled with scores of old runes was born from nothing.

"That should do it," the sole occupant of the workshop said when they were finally sastified with their work. The genderless owner placed the worn quill back into its cup before gently blowing on the gleaming ink so it would dry quicker. They glanced at a nearby calander pinned to the wall. It proclaimed December 8, 1980 in neat print. To the left of it, a window set deep into the stone wall showed a dark sky and gentle flurries of snow drifting past.

"A cold day for a cold decision," the person snorted, self despicabley, turning away once they saw the weather. "But is it a cold decision when I just want a blasted vacation away from everybody? I don't think so."

Fingers trailed across the smooth spine delicate silver contraptions and the surface of thick tomes that would soon be gathering dust. "I've already said my goodbyes to those who care. All that's left is you."

Fingers dropped away, clutching the edges of clothes. Lips turned down at the corners, frowning minutely. "I asked for guidance - mulitiple times, if you recall- but you never anwsered. You have no one to blame but yourself." the owner chastised the air.   

But as if to provide a counter to the heavy emotion filling the room, lips then curled into a obscenely amused grin. "They won't rest until they find me. I wish them luck, because they won't see hide nor hair of me for the next few decades!" the figure chortled.

Dawn light spilled into the workshop, illuminating all that it touched with a golden light.

"Here we go!" the admittedly strange, and quiet possibly mad, person cheered. But then, the pentagram on the parchment started to glow. Every line and graceful curve drawn with the utmost care shone bright with a inner light. It was strange, it was otherwordly, it was quite possibly magical.

And then the light died. The owner vanished along with the glow- without a trace, as if they had evaporated into thin air! Magic indeed.

The twittering of birds filled the otherwise silent shop with music. The dawn's bright rays did not fade, merely grew with the passage of time. Dust motes begain to settle on books with nothing stirring the air to continue their flight. A pair of spiders started to spin a web between an old broom and the back wall, where the light didn't reach. Somehow they instinctively knew that no one would disturb the crowded workshop for a very, very long time.

But then a faint presence appeared, felt in the echo of a warm summer breeze. It drifted through the workshop, piles swaying dangerously as it passed. The presence did not stop, however, until it reached the runic diagram which was all that remained of whatever ritual the owner had concocted to aid their escape. It caught on fire without any visible prompting, the parchment curling into as as the presence vanished.