#delicious magic

[whatscookinchicago]

Chicken Adobo

If you could chose your ‘last meal,’ what would you indulge in for the last time? For me, the answer is easy… Filipino Chicken Adobo. It’s that comforting dish I grew up on, where my mom made it best. I’m sure every Filipino will say their mom’s version is the best there is, but really… my mom’s is the best! So what’s Filipino Chicken Adobo? Chicken is braised in a soy and vinegar sauce with garlic and onions until this delicious magic happens.

[sherlocksnobody]

[sylvain-tolbert-blog]

The book’s very pages repulsed him, but he turned them anyway.

It was an old book of draconic magic---definitely heretical---that Sylvain had likely overpaid for. He didn’t mind, though; the spell he wanted was here. It was written in an archaic tongue, but readable---so long as one could breathe through the thick aura of magical dread that hung over the book.

“For Finding That Which Art Lost,” was the name of the spell. Sylvain read the instructions twice, then started gathering the needed reagents.

(( Tagging @enlakertuh for being an excellent procurer of forbidden things! ))

[sylvain-tolbert-blog]

Things Done in the Dark, Part 2

(( This story is about 3 weeks late, whoops. OOC info only, of course! Tagging @marcellain for mention. Part one is here. ))

Sylvain’s rooms were only half furnished; his belongings were being sent from Ishgard, and were still, he had ascertained, on a caravan somewhere in Coerthas. Still, the room was warm and bright; candles flickered and a fire crackled in the hearth. The retainers he’d hired in Ul’dah were silent, unseen ghosts in his home---but damn if they weren’t efficient.

He’d just returned from the Shroud, his second visit to that dark forest. And he’d brought something back with him, a small box, rusted and stained with soil. Sylvain walked through the living room to his office door, then placed his hand flat on the wood and murmured a word. Aetheric runes shimmered on the door’s lintel then disappeared, unlocking the door.

In his office, Sylvain placed the box on his desk. He was fairly sure the cocky, red-headed bard he’d hired as a guide had eliminated all the box’s wards, but caution was always advisable. He could sense no magic remaining around the box, but he activated a protection spell anyway, surrounding his body with an aetheric shield.

He had lied to Marcellain about what he sought in the Shroud. It was no family book, hidden there by a whimsical aunt, but an object of magic. Exactly what form the item took, Sylvain was unsure; all he knew was that it was a supposedly powerful magical focus that he had meticulously tracked to the Shroud. Carefully, Sylvain pried open the box’s lid. Inside was a small object wrapped in a piece of decaying fabric. With a finger, he parted the folds of the cloth, then recoiled.

Resting in the box was a small bone, two ilms long and an old, yellowed color. A fragment of a bone from a dragon’s wing or claw? Worse, an elezen’s pinky bone? He didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, Sylvain would be accused of heresy for sure if he was discovered with it. Witchdropped, perhaps.

Hastily Sylvain closed the box and shoved it in a desk drawer. He retreated back to the candlelit living room and poured himself a drink.

It was true that his spell kept failing and he needed more magical power to make it work. It was also true that such an item would provide that power. But well he knew the difference between magic and evil, darkness and light. There was a line he would not cross.

Sylvain stared into the fireplace, watching the flames flickering there and nursing his gin. No. He could never travel such a dark path.

Could he?

[sylvain-tolbert-blog]

Things Done In the Dark

((This is something (super)short I wrote for Sylvain’s FC; thought I’d share it here too since it applies to some other RP stuff I need to write. OOC info only, of course!))

Sylvain knelt on the floor, hands and pants powdered with chalk, scrawling something on the floor. Both the walls and floor were stone, mossy and damp, and the only light came from a few flickering candles in the corner. A book lay open beside him, and Sylvain paused occasionally to consult its yellowed pages. When finished, he leaned back to look at his handiwork: a chalk rune of some sort, complicated lines drawn inside a large outer circle. He smiled, and without flinching, drew a dagger across his palm. Blood trickled into the rune, and Sylvain whispered a word. Nothing happened at first, but then the small space grew cold; Sylvain’s breath was a plume of fog. A gust of frigid wind blew out the candles, and then… nothing. Sylvain slumped, annoyance written on his face. Another failure. The unnatural chill slowly receded, and Sylvain stood, picking up the book to examine its pages. He would try again. It would work.

[drinkingisforlovers-blog]

Hangover cure.