Arynn St. John

Witch (Cure-Blooded) | 23 Years | Son of Enzo and Bonnie | Closed Blog for Dark Skies RP

[traegics]

Griffin had been halfway through a cinnamon-sugar beignet when he caught the comment.

Not intentionally. The market was crowded enough that conversations bled together in a constant hum of bargaining, laughter, and music drifting from somewhere deeper in the square. Still, the remark managed to cut through the noise.

"Hard to believe markets like this became a rare event instead of the norm for us."

A snort escaped him before he could stop it.

"Tell me about it."

Balancing a paper plate in one hand and an iced coffee in the other, Griffin slid into the empty chair across from Arynn without much ceremony. Like a man who had never once worried about whether he was invited somewhere.

"Couple years ago, my biggest concern at a market was whether somebody was overcharging me for peaches." He shook his head, taking another bite of the beignet. "Now every time I see a crowd gathering, I spend the first thirty seconds wondering if we're about to get attacked by cultists, dragons, rogue witches, angry ghosts, or some horrifying combination of all four."

His grin flashed easy and crooked.

"Honestly? The fact that today appears to just be people buying vegetables feels suspicious."

The wolf leaned back in his chair, stretching one arm across the backrest as his gaze swept over the bustling square. Families moved between stalls. Fae merchants haggled with humans. Children darted through the crowd with sticky fingers and pockets full of sweets.

For a moment, the sight softened something in his expression.

"Nice, though." His voice dropped slightly. "Feels normal."

A beat passed before he glanced back toward Arynn, finally studying him properly.

"You look like you've got about six different things chewing holes through your brain right now." Griffin lifted his coffee in a casual salute. "Which means either you're planning a crime, hiding a crime, or avoiding a conversation."

His grin returned immediately.

"My money's on the conversation."

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn winced slightly. "Ooh, no don't ever talk like that. I really don't want to jinx things and start getting actual ghosts or spirits involved in this. Trust me - as someone that frequently interacts with the spirits on certain levels, we really don't want to upset them. They can be incredibly testy when they want to be." Arynn quickly shook his head and chuckled a few times.

"I get you though. It's taken a bit to get used to this way of exchanging goods with one another. I wonder just how primitive we must seem to some of these fairies." He mused for a moment. The witch cut a sidelong glance at the male as he turned to study him and offered his analysis.

"Uh, guilty." Another soft laughing escaped him, but he shook his head. "Not planning a crime though - or hiding one. So, you're good. Nice guess." He sighed once.

[arynnstjohn]

There was something admirable in the way the Broken City had pieced itself together over the past several months. There was a few spots throughout the cities where the reconstruction was still underway, but the majority of restoration efforts had been concluded. In that time, the mortal denizens of the City had seemingly started growing accustomed to their Fae neighbors.

At least, that was as far as Arynn could tell as he sat at a small shaded table just off to the side of the town square's market buzz. The witch nursed a fresh lemonade he had procured from one of the Summer vendors and quietly drifted his gaze from person to person.

It had been several weeks now since his magic had slipped from his control. He had told his younger sister that it was time for him to come clean about everything - the magic-for-hire hustling; the dark magic experimentation and studies - to their elder sister. Yet, he had done just about anything he could to avoid having that conversation whenever they spent time together. He supposed there would always be a part of him worried about disappointing Aliyah. Swirling the ice cubes within the citrus-flavored drink, Arynn shifted his weight upon his seat and quietly gazed towards the market stalls.

"Hard to believe markets like this became a rare event instead of the norm for us." He mumbled to himself and lightly chewed upon his straw.

( @darkskiesrpgstarters )

[traegics]

Billie didn’t look away when he said it.

“Okay,” she said softly, like that answer made sense. “Terrified is… a good sign, Arynn. It means you felt the line.”

She shifted her weight, grounding herself before she spoke again.

“Dangerous people don’t usually stop to question it,” Billie added. “They justify it. Or they chase it.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the grimoire still held tight in his hands, then back to him.

“You noticed it was different,” she went on. “You’re already paying attention. That matters more than the surge itself.”

A small pause, letting the night air fill the space between them.

“And yeah,” Billie said quietly, “we both know what Bennett witches are capable of.”

Her tone stayed steady, not dismissing it, not softening it into something harmless.

“So we don’t pretend it’s nothing,” she continued. “We take it seriously. We slow it down. We figure out what triggered it and how to keep it from running you instead of the other way around.”

She stepped a fraction closer, still careful not to touch.

“But you being scared of it?” Billie said, voice gentler now. “That’s not weakness. That’s control trying to reassert itself.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to solve it tonight,” she added. “Right now, we just make sure you’re steady. Breathing. Not chasing whatever that felt like.”

Her eyes held his, calm and certain.

“I’m here,” Billie said simply. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn slowly inhaled and exhaled a few times before running his hands over his face. "I always thought dark magic and stuff like expression were the worst things that could tempt a witch." He commented. "Guess I have to add... whatever this is to that list." The witch shook his head. He gave himself a few more moments of breathing to try and settle the world around him before speaking once again.

"I know what triggered it." He commented quietly. "Being blamed. For his pain. For all of this. Like we aren't suffering too. Like I haven't been trying to fix all of this from the moment we got here. Like I'm not--" He stopped himself as the street lamps dimmed and flickered around them. He closed his eyes for several moments and held his breath.

He didn't open them again until she spoke the words 'I'm here'. "Ever the brave one." He halfheartedly smiled at the blonde. "Can't tell if that's more like Aunt Caroline or Stefan." He mused.

[traegics]

Kaidan didn’t interrupt the grumbling. He let Arynn push against it—against the idea, the fear, the lack of control—because that was part of how people got their footing back.

“Magic is supposed to be commanded,” he agreed evenly as they walked. “When it isn’t, it usually means one of two things—either the system’s unstable…” a brief glance toward the direction of the Grill, of the city stitched together wrong, “…or the person carrying it is.”

Not judgment. Just fact.

His pace stayed unhurried, matching Arynn’s without effort.

“And before you argue that,” Kaidan added, dry at the edges, “unstable doesn’t mean broken. It means something changed and your control hasn’t caught up yet.”

At the sharp no—no next time—Kaidan’s mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile.

“There’s always a next time,” he said calmly. “Not because you want one. Because power doesn’t disappear just because you’re afraid of it.” A beat. “What you decide is whether the next time catches you off guard again.”

They moved another few steps, the rhythm of walking doing what it always did—pulling breath back into something usable.

“‘Lumen Veritatis,’” Kaidan said after a moment, pronouncing it cleanly, without show. “Light of truth.” His gaze flicked briefly to Arynn. “You didn’t summon darkness. You forced truth on someone who wasn’t ready to hold it.”

A pause.

“That kind of magic answers fast,” he continued. “Especially when grief’s already in the room. It doesn’t wait for permission—it looks for direction. You gave it one, even if you didn’t mean to.”

He let that sit—not heavy, just honest.

When Arynn offered his name, Kaidan inclined his head slightly.

“Kaidan,” he returned, simple.

They walked another half block before he spoke again, voice quieter now, more grounded.

“You don’t prevent a ‘next time’ by pretending it won’t happen,” he said. “You prevent it by recognizing the feeling right before it does.” He tapped two fingers lightly against his own sternum. “That pressure. The spike. The moment where your body moves before your mind catches up.”

His gaze shifted back to Arynn, steady.

“Next time you feel that? You stop talking. You stop reaching. You breathe once—slow—and you decide if you’re about to open the door or close it.”

A beat.

“Right now, you closed it after the fact,” Kaidan added. “That’s not failure. That’s step one.”

The tension in the air had thinned now, the city settling back into its usual uneven rhythm.

“And for what it’s worth,” he said, a touch drier again, “if you were ‘that kind of witch,’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be having a very different one.”

A glance sideways—measured, but not unkind.

“You’re paying attention,” Kaidan finished. “That puts you ahead of most people with half your power.”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn listened as the man spoke, but could only find himself shaking his head a few times here and there; or pacing a few steps in one direction and then back in the opposite. "It's... this place. This - wherever - that we are now. I'm constantly feeling pulled in seven directions like my magic wants to connect with each of those fae Courts at the same time and yet separately." He explained with frustration heavy in his tone.

A hand lifted to his own chest as Kaidan spoke and he lightly gripped the fabric of his shirt beneath it. "I hate it..." He muttered in a quiet admission. Magic was everything to him and something he couldn't just stop using. Yet, how could he embrace that part of himself when he couldn't even trust his magic to listen to him and only him? He glanced up at the stranger beside him and sighed once. "You talk like someone that's carried that weight around - power."

[traegics]

Alaric tracked the streetlights without turning his head — just a flick of his eyes, a quiet confirmation that the surge was already starting to bleed off instead of spike. Good. That meant they’d caught it early.

“Yeah,” he said, lowering himself onto the bench beside Arynn but leaving a respectful gap between them. “That’s the adrenaline side of it. Magic dumps a surge into your system, your body thinks it just ran a marathon and got into a fight at the same time.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, posture grounded and steady — something solid to anchor to without forcing it.

“First thing we’re gonna do,” Alaric continued, voice calm, measured, “is give your nervous system a chance to realize it’s not under attack anymore.”

A small pause, then he tapped two fingers lightly against his own knee — slow, rhythmic. “Breathe in through your nose for four,” he said. “Hold for four. Out for four. Don’t rush it. You’re not trying to fix anything. Just reminding your body it can stand down.”

He didn’t look at Arynn while he did it — just kept his own breathing steady, easy, something to mirror without pressure.

After a few beats, he added, quieter, “The shaking? The buzzing? That’s not you losing control. That’s the aftermath of control snapping back too fast. Happens when you slam the brakes instead of easing off.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Arynn’s hands. “If it helps, keep something physical in your grip,” he said. “That book’s fine. Or your jacket, edge of the bench — anything that reminds your brain you’re here, not back in whatever memory your magic just dragged up.”

A beat. Then, a little more direct:

“That spell you spoke,” Alaric said, tone thoughtful, not accusatory. “Lumen Veritatis. Truth magic. You didn’t choose it — it chose the situation. Guy was asking for answers he wasn’t ready to carry, and your magic decided to show him anyway.”

He exhaled slowly, glancing down the street again before settling back into that steady presence beside him.

“That’s advanced instinct,” he added. “Dangerous if you don’t know how to steer it. But it’s not random.” His voice softened slightly. “It means your magic listens. We just need to make sure it listens to you next time, not the loudest emotion in the room.”

Another quiet beat passed.

“You ever been taught how to ground after a surge like that?” he asked.

[arynnstjohn]

It was a simple breathing exercise, but Arynn listened and followed through with the motions as if it were a brand new lesson being introduced to him. He tried to push out everything that felt off - that felt wrong - with himself and closed his eyes tightly. He didn't open them again until he felt the ground solidify itself beneath them a little more solidly.

"At least I know the spell works..." He muttered; unable to muster the humor he had so desperately desired to conjure up. "I hadn't ever tested it. Just wrote it down and moved on to something else. Can't even remember what it was now." He shook his head a few slow times.

He gave a small nod at Alaric's words. "Yeah, I was taught. But, that was years ago. I was just a kid. My magic's always listened to me for years now. Since I was some teenager messing with spells I shouldn't have." He remarked. "I haven't needed to ground myself in so long..." He trailed off and closed his eyes once more.

[traegics]

Abigail didn’t hesitate when he pulled her in.

She folded into the hug like it was second nature — one hand pressing lightly between his shoulder blades, steady and grounding, the other curling briefly into the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t rush him out of it. Didn’t fill the space with reassurance he wasn’t ready to hold yet.

When he pulled back, she let him — but she stayed close.

“You’re not going to disappoint her,” she said quietly, not sharp, not forceful — just certain. “Aliyah doesn’t love us because we’re perfect. She loves us because we tell the truth. Even when it’s messy.”

A small pause.

“And if she’s upset, it won’t be at you,” she added. “It’ll be because something weird touched her brother and she didn’t get to punch it first.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from her before it softened again.

When he tried to deflect — how are you? — Abigail’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, catching it immediately.

“Nice try,” she said, gentle but unimpressed.

But she didn’t shut him down completely.

She exhaled slowly, gaze drifting up to the sky with him for a second, letting herself answer honestly — just not in a way that let him disappear.

“I’m okay,” she said. “A little tired. A little… tuned in more than I want to be.” A small shrug. “But I’m here. I’m steady.”

Her gaze dropped back to him, sharper now — present, anchored.

“And I’m not the one who just accidentally weaponized grief in public,” she added lightly. “So we’re not redirecting the spotlight that easily.”

A beat.

She stepped a little closer again, not touching this time — just there.

“We’ll tell Aliyah together,” Abigail said. “You don’t have to walk into that alone.”

Then, softer:

“And after that? We figure out what the hell is going on with your magic. One step at a time. No spiraling required.”

[arynnstjohn]

"I... I know she does. But she's..." Arynn let out a quiet breath and swallowed through a spike of emotion. "She's the closest thing to Mom we've had since we arrived in this timeline." He admitted quietly. He appreciated his baby sister's efforts to convince him it would be alright to tell Aliyah the truth about his dabbling and studies, but the worry never dislodged itself from his chest.

When she caught on almost immediately to his attempts to change the subject, he gave her a look that could only be described as 'I had to try' and listened as she answered him anyway. "Trust me. After tonight, I feel you. I can't say that I exactly like being this connected to nature." He frowned sharply; sighing when she didn't let him drop the subject completely.

"No, I'll talk to her. I... It's my obsession with magic that drove me to messing with dark magic just to prove I could do it. I should own up to it on my own..." He spoke softly, but gave her a small smile. "I will definitely take your help figuring out what the hell's going on though."

[traegics]

Billie didn’t try to stop his pacing. She just adjusted her own steps so she stayed within reach without crowding him, the neon from the sign washing pale light over the sidewalk between them.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. That’s honest. I’ll take honest.”

She watched the way he held the grimoire, how tight his fingers had gone around the edges.

“You didn’t wake up today planning to hurt someone,” Billie said. “You didn’t walk into that bar looking for a target. You were working. You were existing.”

A small pause.

“And he grabbed something sacred to you and pushed on the one bruise this entire city is still carrying.”

She let that settle.

“Magic doesn’t live in a vacuum,” Billie continued gently. “You know that. It lives in us. And we’ve all been… full lately.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

“What happened in there wasn’t you deciding to turn your power on someone. It was your grief answering when his grief hit it.”

She stepped a little closer—not touching, just steady.

“That doesn’t make it nothing,” she added. “And it doesn’t mean we ignore it. But it also doesn’t make you dangerous.”

Billie met his eyes, calm and certain.

“You’ve spent your whole life being careful. Being good. One surge doesn’t erase that.”

A beat.

“Are you scared of what you felt?” she asked quietly.

[arynnstjohn]

It was no secret that magic and emotions were an ever volatile and equation of precision in need of constant balancing. That had always been the case, even before the fog; before the timelines smashing together. It was the fundamental nature of being a witch. "It all happened so fast, Billie." He spoke as his breath finally found release in a sigh.

When she assured him the incident didn't make him dangerous, Arynn gave her a hesitant look. "Are we sure about that? We both know what Bennett witches are capable of. If I lost control like that..." He trailed off to stop himself from spiraling once more. The witch closed his eyes, letting the night breeze wrap around him for a few moments. Until her question registered with him.

"Terrified." He admitted in a tiny voice. Magic had a distinct feeling and though it differed when he drew upon the Spirits and when he dipped his feet in darker arts, it had always been consistent in feeling... grounded. The magic that answered him that night had been different. It felt pure. Untethered. Intoxicating in all the wrong ways that beckoned to the parts of him that had always been obsessed and addicted with his craft. Perhaps that was why it felt like his body was hesitant to let the sensation fully slip away just yet.

[traegics]

Abigail didn’t interrupt him this time.

She let him talk — let the panic unravel in words instead of magic — even as her chest tightened at the sound of it. Dark magic. Truth spell. It came on its own.

When he held up his arms like evidence in a trial, like proof he wasn’t already slipping, she stepped closer without thinking.

“Hey,” she said softly, steady as a metronome. “Breathe.”

Not a command. An anchor.

She reached out then — not grabbing, just placing her hand over his wrist where his pulse beat too fast. Warm. Human. Present. “There are no veins. No corruption. No shift in your aura.” Her eyes searched his face carefully, witch-sight flickering faint and controlled. “You’re still you.”

She let that sit there.

“You didn’t summon dark magic,” she continued, voice firm but gentle. “You reacted. You were angry. You were hurt. And magic — especially now — is answering emotion faster than intention.” A pause. “That doesn’t mean it owns you.”

When he mentioned telling Aliyah, something softened in her expression — not fear, not resistance. Just understanding.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then we tell her.”

No hesitation. No debate.

“But not because you’re spiraling,” she added. “We tell her because this is new and weird and we don’t keep things like this in our pockets until they rot.”

She squeezed his wrist once before letting go.

“You didn’t hurt him,” Abigail reminded him. “You showed him what he was already carrying. That’s not cruelty. That’s grief with teeth.”

Her gaze lifted, steady and unwavering.

“And you are not some cursed conduit waiting to snap, Arynn. If dark magic brushed you, we figure out why. Together.” A small breath. “You don’t have to carry this alone just because you’re scared.”

Then, softer — the little sister who had grown into her spine but still knew how to offer it:

“You’re still here. With me. That’s what matters right now.”

[arynnstjohn]

A staggered breath escaped him and he found himself closing distance with the younger woman, pulling her into a quiet and grounding embrace. "I don't know that I can though." He mumbled into his baby sister's hair. "I don't know that I can upset her like that - disappoint her." He held her a couple of moments longer before freeing her and taking a couple of steps back.

"I know you're right though." The male concluded. He ran his free hand over his face and took a few moments to gaze at the faint ripple throughout the starry night sky above them. "How... How are you? Are you okay?" He questioned in a - pitiful - attempt to deflect for even just a moment.

[vilisisms]

daphne hadn’t meant to get involved. she’d been near the bar, half-listening to conversations that were too loud to be comfortable, when the air shifted — subtle at first. then sharp. the blue flame was what did it. not the volume, not the argument. the color. she didn’t move until he did. outside, the door thudded shut behind him and the night swallowed the leftover tension in slow, uneven breaths. daphne stepped out a few seconds later, pausing just long enough to make it clear she wasn’t chasing him — just following the disturbance.

“hey,” she called, not loud, not intimate. just enough to reach him. she kept a respectful distance, hands visible, posture open. “i’m not here to start anything.” her eyes flicked briefly to the book in his grip, then back to his face. “what happened in there… it didn’t feel intentional.” no accusation in it. just observation. “sometimes things answer faster than we expect.” she studied him carefully, not prying, but assessing whether he looked steady or shaken. “i don’t know you,” daphne added evenly, “so i won’t pretend to understand what you were trying to do. but if that wasn’t what you meant to cast… you might want a second before walking off.” a small pause. the fog curled faintly at the edge of the streetlight. “i’m daphne,” she offered, simple and grounding. “and you’re not the only one who’s noticed magic behaving differently lately.”

[arynnstjohn]

It was the unfamiliarity of the voice that caused him to slow his pace, rather than the presence of another person entirely. He looked the woman over for a brief few seconds and swallowed once he was content enough that she indeed wasn't there to start anything with him. "It wasn't." He remarked just a hair too quickly. Too sharply. "I'm not... I don't hurt people. I'm someone that makes friends with strangers." He elaborated and sighed.

He spared a glance down at the tome clutched tightly in his still shaking hands. "I wasn't trying to do anything to him. Not... consciously." He shook his head once. "When he blamed everything that's happened on the freaks... like we haven't been doing everything we can to fix things for over a year..." He swallowed back another surge of power he felt rise in his gut.

Once he was confident it was quelled, he let out a breath. "I'm Arynn." He offered back in turn. "Magic has been... unpredictable. Harder. I've felt more like a newbie witch these past couple of months than I did when I first started learning magic."

[vilisisms]

aliyah didn’t hesitate. the second arynn slipped out the side door, she was moving — weaving through tables, ignoring the way the room was still whispering. she didn’t look back at the candles. she didn’t look at the man who’d stumbled out the front. her focus was singular. she caught up to him half a block down, her stride longer than usual, jaw set in that quiet, dangerous line that meant she was worried — not angry. not yet.

“arynn.” his name wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sharp either. it was steady. grounding. she stepped in front of him, hands coming up immediately — one to his cheek, the other to his wrist, checking pulse, checking pupils, checking for that distant look that meant magic had taken more than it gave. “look at me.” her voice dropped lower. protective. older-sister coded. “are you in there?”

her thumb brushed under his eye, searching. not for tears. for clarity. she didn’t rush him. she waited until she saw him fully present before she let her shoulders lower a fraction. “okay,” she exhaled quietly. “okay.” only then did her expression shift. not anger. not accusation. concern laced with steel. “what happened back there?” she asked, eyes locking onto his. “and don’t give me the ‘he was drunk’ version. i saw the candles.”

a beat.

“arynn, bennett witches don’t lose the reins like that.” her tone was firm now, but it carried years of shared training. shared history. “we were raised to have more control than that. to be better than that." she stepped closer, lowering her voice so the street couldn’t overhear. “you didn’t just correct his pronunciation,” she said quietly. “you let the magic decide how far to go.” her fingers tightened around his wrist — not to hurt. to anchor. “why?” her gaze softened just slightly. “was it him?” she asked. “or was it everything you’ve been carrying since the fog?” she tilted her head, searching his face like she always had when he scraped a knee or lied about not being scared. “talk to me,” she murmured. “before you convince yourself that was nothing.”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn.

The tone in which his name was delivered grounded him and stopped him in place on the sidewalk. When he turned around and looked into the eyes of his elder sister, it was like a curtain had been pulled away from a magic scene and there he was - the younger brother standing before an elder sister that he loved and respected more than he ever knew how to put into words. Sure, she'd lectured him more than plenty of times over the years - but it was always with the same tone as she spoke now. Firm, but laced in sincerity and genuine concern.

Bennet witches don't lose control like that. Regret twisted across his expression at the words. "I didn't mean to, Aliyah." The words sounded like a child's in his ears. "It-It was stupid. He was just a stupid... grieving man. But when he blamed us - witches, the supernatural - for everything that's wrong... I - I don't know, something in my just shut off. The magic had responded and left by the time I could even register what was going on, Aliyah." He explained with a waver in his voice.

"I -I don't know. Maybe it was the weight of the fog; of everything that's happened to us in this past year." He shook his head a few times.

[traegics]

Kaidan didn’t flinch at the volume. He let the words hit the night and fall where they would, his presence steady enough that the shadows didn’t surge to meet the spike in emotion.

“I know,” he said simply.

Not dismissal. Recognition.

He shifted one step closer—not into the witch’s space, but into the edge of the streetlight where he could be seen clearly, human-shaped instead of rumor. His voice stayed level, unhurried.

“You didn’t call it. That’s the part that scared you,” Kaidan continued. “Magic that answers without being asked always does. It feels like something reached up through you and borrowed your hands.”

A pause. The city hummed on around them—cars passing, someone laughing too loudly down the block. Ordinary life, stubborn and loud.

“That doesn’t make you a monster,” Kaidan said. “It makes you a conduit who didn’t realize how open the door was.”

His gaze held Arynn’s, steady but not accusing.

“Dark magic doesn’t announce itself with a signature every time,” he added. “Sometimes it rides grief. Sometimes it rides anger. Sometimes it just recognizes a crack and slips through.” A beat. “The fact that it didn’t linger doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. It means you didn’t let it make a home.”

He nodded once toward the grimoire in Arynn’s hands.

“You’re not ‘that kind of witch’ because you’re standing here trying to understand what happened instead of justifying it,” Kaidan said. “People who want the dark don’t argue with it after.”

Another small step closer—still respectful distance.

“But here’s the part you don’t want to hear,” he continued, quieter now. “Intent doesn’t stop impact. You didn’t mean to hurt him. You did. Both can be true. Owning that doesn’t make you cruel—it makes you responsible.”

The night seemed to settle around them, the earlier static easing.

“You don’t need to decide what kind of witch you are tonight,” Kaidan said. “You just need to decide what you do next time the door cracks open without your permission.”

A pause. Then, grounded and practical:

“Right now? Your hands are still shaking. That means your system’s lit up and looking for somewhere to dump the charge. Walk with me for half a block. Breathe it down. Put your feet back in your body before the magic decides to finish the conversation for you.”

He angled his body slightly down the sidewalk, an invitation rather than an order.

“And if you want,” Kaidan added, tone softer at the edge, “you can tell me what you were writing in that book when the world decided to pick a fight with you.”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn's jaw remained tight and he lightly ground his teeth as the man offered both reassuring words, yet refused to shrink away from holding him accountable for the consequences of the incident. "That's... not how magic's supposed to work." Arynn grumbled, although he knew it sounded childish. "It's-It's not supposed to react on its own. It's supposed to be commanded - not react on instinct and intent." He continued grumbling, if only to keep his feet moving as he walked with the stranger.

He paused just a moment to shake his head, firmly. "Next time? No, there can't be a next time for something like this. What if whatever 'next time' brings is something worse than just psychological damage?" He argued, but let out a breath as he calmed his outburst. "Sorry." He remarked. He nodded at the invitation to continue walking and welcome a few moments of silence before he spoke once more. "It's one of my grimmoires." He explained quietly. "I was just going over a few notes I'd made before the fog." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he felt some of the wired energy slip away from him.

"Thank you, by the way." He offered finally. "I'm Arynn."

[traegics]

Alaric went very still when Arynn said his name like that.

Not tense. Not alarmed. Just… recalibrating. Timelines had taught him to take impossible introductions in stride, but Bonnie Bennett’s kid — Enzo’s too — that landed with a familiar weight. A lot of history packed into a few words.

“Okay,” he said quietly, steadying the moment the way he always did in classrooms and hallways. “That’s… a lot of information to drop on a guy in the middle of a sidewalk. But I believe you.” A faint huff of dry humor followed. “My life stopped being linear a long time ago.”

He shifted his stance so he was half a step closer, still not crowding Arynn, just enough to ground the space between them. His gaze stayed on the kid’s hands, still trembling, the grimoire clenched like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“First,” Alaric said, tone firm but kind, “you didn’t hurt anyone. That matters. Second, magic moving without permission? Also matters. That’s your body telling you it doesn’t feel safe, not you secretly being a monster.”

A beat. He glanced back toward the Grill, then down the street — checking exits, checking threats, old habit. The night stayed quiet.

“You’re not broken for reacting,” he continued. “You were provoked. Grief hit you sideways, and your magic answered before your brain could get a vote. That happens to witches. Hell, it happens to humans — they just don’t light candles blue when it does.”

His voice softened a notch. “But the kind of magic you felt? The surge? That’s what happens when power and emotion share a lane. It feels intoxicating, and it feels terrifying, and it leaves you shaking after. That’s the come-down. Not a sign you lost control forever.”

Alaric nodded once, decision made. “We’re not doing this on a sidewalk. Not while you’re still buzzing and the world’s too loud.” He gestured with his chin down the block, away from the Grill’s glow. “There’s a bench about a minute that way. Quiet, good sightlines. We’ll get your breathing back to baseline, make sure your magic settles.”

Then, gentler, with a small, grounding half-smile: “And for the record? If Bonnie Bennett raised you and Enzo taught you how to love like he did, you’ve got more backbone than you think. You don’t have to carry tonight alone.”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn listened to every word that slipped from the man's lips. The entire time his hands fidgeted with one another, as if they couldn't find any solace in the aftermath. "Sorry." He managed to offer in acknowledgment of the info-dump he'd just subjected the man to. "These timelines never get any easier to deal with. I got into a habit of just ripping the band-aid off." He tried to joke, but his chuckle never found its way out of his chest.

Magic and emotion. It was a tale as old as time, of course, and one he was intimately familiar as a witch with even an ounce of proper instruction in his abilities. He had known for a while now - they all had, more of less - that magic was volatile ever since the fog. The simplest of spells took just that much more proper focus instead of relying on muscle memory - things of that nature. He hadn't put much stock into the situation, though.

He was regretting that decision now. When Alaric decided for them that they were taking their conversation somewhere more stable, Arynn let his feet follow through on the instructions. The lights on the street lamps nearby pulsed brighter and brighter, but gradually dimmed back to normal as the threat of bursting quelled itself. "Every nerve in my body feels like it's firing off right now." He grumbled as he sat himself upon the bench.

[traegics]

Abigail didn’t wait long before following.

She’d only caught the last few seconds — the way the air went tight, the flash of wrong-blue light in the candles, the look on Arynn’s face right before the room seemed to exhale all at once. It was enough. Enough to make her heart kick hard against her ribs. Enough to know he hadn’t meant for it to go where it went.

She slipped out the opposite door and found him a short distance down the sidewalk, already moving like he was trying to outrun the echo of it.

“Arynn,” she called softly, then slowed when she reached him, falling into step beside him without grabbing his arm or boxing him in. “Hey.”

She studied him for a second — the way his shoulders were set, the tightness around his mouth. “I only saw the end,” she admitted. “The lights… the way everyone went quiet. I didn’t see what led up to it.”

A small pause. Her voice stayed gentle.

“But I saw you after. And you don’t look okay.”

She tipped her head, searching his face without pushing. “Did anyone get hurt?” Not accusation — grounding. A check-in. “You don’t have to explain everything. I just wanted to make sure you’re still… here. With me.”

[arynnstjohn]

Spinning at the voice, Arynn's face flashed with an expression of visible regret at the sight of his baby sister hurrying after him and grabbing his arm. "Abs..." He started, but she began speaking before he could. "I'm fine..." He shook his head, but frowned. "No. No I'm not. I'm not fine." He corrected and ran his hand over his face.

"No, no one got hurt. It was just some drunk mourning a sister he lost in the fog. He swiped my grimmoire and refused to give it back - all while belittling us 'freaks' as being the cause of everything going wrong with the world right now." Arynn explained, despite Abigail telling him didn't need to.

"Abs, I didn't mean to do anything. I don't even remember doing anything. One minute, I am standing up and asking for my book back. The next, there's dark magic coursing through me and hitting the guy with a nasty truth spell - showing him all of his pain and torment." Arynn swallowed and moved to pace anxiously.

"But, Abs - look." He held up his arms and gestured to his face and neck. "Nothing. There isn't any blackened veins. Abigail, I didn't call out to dark magic. It came on its own." He pleaded. He knew magic had been wonky ever since the Broken City was formed, but to not even be able to keep himself from using dark magic without explicit desire? The prospect chilled him.

"Abs... I think I need to tell Aliyah. About the dark magic. About everything." He said quietly and for just a moment - he was a scared teenage boy seeking the protection of his elder sister, as he once had maybe a decade past.

[traegics]

Alaric had been two stools down, halfway through a bourbon he hadn’t really wanted and a conversation he hadn’t really been listening to when the temperature in the room changed.

Not the thermostat. The air.

Years of hunter instincts lit up in his spine before the candles ever flared. He’d felt that pressure before — magic winding too tight, grief looking for somewhere to land. By the time the blue flame licked cold across glass and wax, he was already moving, chair legs scraping back as he rose.

“Hey,” Alaric said, voice low but carrying, cutting through the stunned hush before panic could take root. “Easy.”

The drunk stumbled out, pale and rattled, and Alaric let him go. Chasing grief with authority never ended well. Instead, he tracked the witch — the kid, really — the way he gathered his things with hands that didn’t quite know where to settle, the way he bolted for the door like the floor might open under him.

Alaric followed at a distance, paid his tab on instinct, and slipped out the opposite entrance just in time to see Arynn disappear down the sidewalk.

“Hey—” he called, then jogged a few steps to catch up, careful not to come in hot. “Hey, hold up.”

He slowed to match Arynn’s pace once he was close enough to be heard without crowding him. The night air was cooler out here; the buzz of the Grill muffled behind them.

“You didn’t break anything,” Alaric said first, because he recognized that look — the one that came after magic moved before permission. “Place is still standing. No one’s bleeding. That’s a win by Mystic Falls standards.”

He tipped his head slightly, studying the younger man’s face, the tremor in his hands, the way the grimoire was held like a lifeline. “But you scared the hell out of yourself back there,” he added, gentler. “And the room. Which tells me you weren’t trying to make a point. You were trying not to drown.”

A beat. His tone stayed even, nonjudgmental.

“I’m Alaric,” he offered. “I run the school up the road that teaches people how to keep moments like that from becoming headlines.” A faint, tired half-smile. “No uniforms. Questionable coffee. Very strict ‘don’t traumatize the locals’ policy.”

He gestured loosely back toward the Grill. “What you did to him? You showed him the truth he was already carrying. That’s not nothing. But magic that runs on grief burns hot and sloppy. It takes more out of you than you think.”

Alaric held his hands open, a subtle mirror of the way Arynn had reached for his book. “So. You wanna tell me your name… or you want me to walk with you in silence until your hands stop shaking?”

[arynnstjohn]

Arynn's hands wouldn't stop trembling. He could still feel the wicked magic coursing through his veins in the aftermath of his lashing out - the sensation buzzing through him like dull electricity and sending all of his nerves and senses firing in confusion. He hadn't registered a voice calling for him until the sound of jogging footfalls drew his attention.

He was thankful it was a familiar face that greeted him. Familiar - albeit about thirty years younger than he remembered, give or take. "Dr. Saltzman..." He spoke the name with a mixture or relief and hesitation. "I... know you rather well, actually. At least, back in my own time line." He explained with a shake of his head. "I'm Arynn. Bonnie Bennett's middle child and only son. Enzo's too." He gave him the brief rundown. He couldn't bring himself to make a joke about being 'due to be born' a handful of years from now.

"Dr. Saltzman, I didn't - I didn't mean to do any of that. I don't even remember calling for the magic. Especially not... not that kind of magic. Not on instinct like that." Arynn frowned and gripped his grimoire tighter.

[traegics]

Billie was already moving by the time the room found its noise again.

She slipped out the opposite door after him, the night air cool against the leftover heat of the Grill. The sidewalk was damp, neon from a flickering sign bleeding into the puddles at her feet. Arynn was only a few paces ahead, shoulders tight, book hugged a little too close to his chest.

“Arynn,” she called, not chasing, just closing the distance enough that he didn’t feel followed. “Hey— wait up.”

She slowed when she reached him, keeping to his side instead of blocking his path.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Billie said quietly. “I saw what happened. And I know you.”

A breath. Her voice stayed gentle.

“That guy was grieving and drunk and looking for a miracle to yell at. You were just… there. That’s not on you.”

She glanced down at the grimoire in his hands, then back up.

“Are you okay?” Billie asked, simple and honest. “Like— right now, are you okay to be out here by yourself?”

[arynnstjohn]

"Billie, I..." The name escaped his lips with a breath of relief at the sight of a familiar face - one that he had actually grown up around, for once. As she calmed him and attempted to reassure him that he had been in the wrong back there, Arynn curled into himself - clutching the grimoire tighter against him as he paced back and forth a few steps at a time.

"I'm... I don't know, Billie." He answered honestly and perhaps that scared him more than what had happened. "I have never lost control like that. I've never used magic that I don't even remember calling for." He explained in a quiet voice. "I've never turned my magic on someone. Not like that - not so..." He couldn't find a word that seemed to describe it accurately enough for him.

[traegics]

Kaidan had felt the flare of magic before the door of the Mystic Grill even banged shut.

Not the clean, disciplined kind. The messy kind—grief-fed, reactive, the sort that didn’t mean to cut but did anyway.

By the time Kaidan stepped out onto the sidewalk, the night had already swallowed the echo of the man’s panic. He clocked the direction of his staggered retreat, the way the streetlamps flickered once as if remembering a colder light. Then his attention settled on the only person left standing too still for the noise of the street.

The witch.

Young. Focused. Shaken in that quiet way people are when they realize they touched something inside themselves they don’t fully control yet.

Kaidan didn’t crowd him. Didn’t raise his voice. He stopped a few paces away, posture relaxed enough to read as nonthreatening, presence heavy enough that the shadows along the building’s edge drew back from him instinctively.

“You didn’t mean for it to go that far,” Kaidan said calmly, not a question. “But you didn’t stop it, either.”

A beat. The night breathed between them.

“I’m not here to drag you back inside,” he added. “And I’m not here to lecture you about restraint in the middle of a sidewalk.” His eyes flicked briefly to the witch’s hands—still faintly trembling around the book. “Crowded rooms and fresh grief are a bad mix for anyone with magic close to the surface.”

He shifted his weight, the movement subtle, grounding.

“The man’s pain isn’t yours to carry,” Kaidan continued. “And it’s not yours to punish him with, either. Even when he deserves the reminder.” A pause. “Especially then.”

Another moment passed—enough space for the witch to breathe.

“You okay to stand here a second? Or do you need to walk it off before whatever’s under your skin decides to answer for you again.”

[arynnstjohn]

The voice was an unfamiliar one. That was enough to slow Arynn's steps in caution, but it was the statement of fact - rather than question - that made him turn around. "Didn't stop -- I didn't even know I was casting anything until it had already happened. One minute I was demanding my grimoire back, and the next the candles around us were blue and that drunkard was fleeing the scene." Arynn remarked.

The almost lecture-like reminder that turning someone's pain against them wasn't within his rights hit Arynn harder than it should have. "I didn't mean to!" He argued, voice louder than he intended. "Look - I'm not... I'm not a stranger to dark magic, alright? But that? What happened back there?" He gestured towards the Grill. "The dark magic came to me. I didn't even call for it. It didn't even leave its lingering evidence behind when it left." He shook his head several times.

"I'm not that kind of witch. Not that kind of person."

[arynnstjohn]

The Mystic Grill buzzed with more energy than usual that evening. Glasses clinked together too loudly; laughter rose up from a table here or there louder than intended; and several pairs of eyes watched the other patrons as if the world my crack open once more if they blinked.

Arynn had settled into a corner table that evening - his grimmoire open before him next to a sweating soda glass he'd been nursing all evening. His hand moved here and there, jotting fresh notes alongside the older notation on the pages, while a soft curl of contentment settled itself upon his lips as he worked. He didn't look up at the sound of a chair scraping into place across from him.

He clocked the scent of whiskey, however, and finally glanced up. "Evening." The witch greeted. "Everything good, man? You know, they'll give you some water if you ask." He offered lightly and returned his gaze to his pages.

"What's this gibberish supposed to be?" The man's voice slurred out, but Arynn just gave him a soft chuckling sound in response. "Homework, I guess. Family kind." The response was simple and unhurried. The man leaned closer, however. Before Arynn could shut the tome, he felt the book leave his touch as the man lifted it and rose to his feet.

"Hey, come on, man. That's not exactly light reading for hanging out at the bar." Arynn remarked with a small laugh as if they two of them were just exchanging jokes. He winced slightly as the man sloppily flipped through the pages. "Nah, hang on, hang on. What's this supposed to be? Some sort of magic gibberish? You some kind of wizard or something?" The man questioned. "What's this one? Luh-men.... v-air... uh, v-airy...tay....tis?" He butchered the pronunciation so loudly that Arynn heard a couple tables nearby scoff into their drinks.

"That it? That the big scary words that you folks are gonna use to make everything right again? Hey - which one can bring back people that should be here?" The man stated and his tone dropped almost instantly, along with his expression. "My sister. She didn't survive that - that fog stuff. So, come on wizard - what gibberish in here can bring her back, then?" He demanded a second time.

Arynn rose to his feet now and a muffled silence fell upon the surrounding tables as the air thickened with tension. "Look, I'm sorry about your sister. Truly, I am. But you've had a long night and I need my book back. Now." He asked once more. The man barked out a laugh - ugly and spiraling. "Or what? You'll curse us? You'll do something to break this place apart again? That was you folk, right? You... freaks?"

The candles surrounding Arynn and the man guttered. "You mispronounced it." The words left Arynn, but the witch didn't recall telling himself to speak them. The overhead candles flickered in their holders. "It's Lumen Veritatis." The dead language rolled off Arynn's tongue with command and the candles around them licked higher and higher before cracking and turning an icy blue color - burning with a freezing cold instead of warmth now.

Silence fell upon the establishment and Arynn raised his hand; just to beckon his book back to him. Yet, something else inside him answered his call instead. Frustration. Grief - that he had felt in the days following the fog as the names of those lost or missing only seemed to grow longer and longer.

A white haze fogged over the drunken man's eyes as he was stricken motionless from a rush of images and memories that assailed his mind. The night of the fog; the sounds of the buildings cracking and crumbling before the man had lost consciousness; waking to find his sister was gone. When the fog cleared from his vision and movement returned to him, the man dropped Arynn's grimmoire with a panic - the witch catching it instinctively - and stumbled out of the building as fast as his body would allow him.

The candles returned to normal and slowly the tension bled out of the air as murmured whispers and conversations broke the silence that had befallen the witnesses. Arynn's fingers trembled against the tome in his hand as he watched the man leave - jaw slightly open as if to question what had just happened. Glancing around him, he quickly gathered his things and shuffled out the opposite entrance of the establishment and down the sidewalk.

( @darkskiesrpgstarters )