Welcome to Gaia! ::

Darkness, it stretched forth looming over tenacity and malice within its grasp, clawing fierce and sure with painted red and yellow bursts, teasing and torturous, cast off by the might of the oil lamp in his left hand. The flames licked the oil greedily, dancing delightful and willful under his siege. He slithered, creeping close to shadows as they enveloped him whole, swallowing him until there was nothing but the bright immensity held just beneath his fingertips.

He trudged past books of dark arts, renowned evils, or deathly destructions. He maneuvered past books of curiosities and delights; one’s who chapters contained depths too horrid, too descriptive, for children to bear the thought, while others, plagued motives of questionable intent behind their words, and, required heed of a keen eye to observe. But, he shouldered past each and every one, until he found himself in a particular nook of the library.

Memories breathed down his neck triggering the hairs to stand on end, and creeping flesh of memory traced his skin with painted nails, and red lips. The fluster of her hair felt as familiar as life, and it flickered over him—for just that instance. But he needed to focus, there were too many reasons to be here. The children of Marta Nettlepot rested sorely in his hands, and he knew it. Sillia Rosier’s presence had been made to light, and sickeningly odd. And now? Alfons Flint had found himself in the grasps of this school.

Her fiery hair… His molten eyes…

Tearing through volumes of worn leather binding and faded printed scripts of gold and black and silver and red, until one book had fallen specific into his possession, History of the Great Houses. Ripping through chapters and scanning over names, and faces, and figures, and facts, he found what he was looking for—

Last name to date, last name to date, he wondered, finger pressing onto the page as he scanned through the last of their name. Rosnae Von Ichval, he noted. ”Died upon birth…fourteen years ago.” He read aloud with a bare whisper.

Furrowing his brows, he shook his head, behemoth and wild. ”No, no, no. Accio fourth year contact sheet.” He decreed with a strict tongue, lashing out at the open air with his walnut wand. With the smallest pop, a roll of parchment apparated in front of him, and with burly hands he seized the page and wrenched it wide. ”—all owls to Medina family English residence… or… Spain residence.”