<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/736x/7c/06/6e/7c066ee66e3059d784deded700f1ac15.jpg)</div><strong>NAME:</strong>Orphan<br/><strong>TIME/DATE:</strong>October 27, 2017, 3:00PM<br/><strong>LOCATION:</strong>Back right corner of the library<br/><strong>TAGGING:</strong>Sofina, Open<br/><strong>MISC INFORMATION:</strong>Mischief<br/><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">     In the far right corner of the library, deep in the stacks, was a wall of books. The shelves were bare. Two haphazard piles of books rose in a hill, casting a shadow over the cozy corner—over a man who knelt on the floor with a piece of chalk. His arms and hands were covered in what oblivious beings would call <em>tattoos</em> but to those educated in magic, they would know them to be runes. The runes, in their Cyrillic, lines, and shapes, wrapped his fingers and arms up to his elbows where the black, rolled-up sleeves of a jacket began. Necklaces of silver with crystal shards coiled in wire hung from his neck in three laces. Beneath his jacket, was a shirtless body—more flesh, a tapestry for more magical etchings. There was a book open to his left that bright sky-blue eyes regarded beneath dark brows. The book was open to a magic circle that he was copying amidst four red burning candles.<br/><br/>     The man was drawing as quickly and quietly as he could, glancing impishly over his left and right shoulders out of nervous habit. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. One mistake in the circle could bring about an entirely different spell, and he wouldn’t know what it would be. It was better for a magus to never finish the circle than to finish a circle he didn’t know. The page in the book read, “Imp Summoning.” An imp; a harmless demon. It had been a page that he just-so-happened to stumble across in his readings and well…why the <em>hell</em> not? It was a weak demon. He could try to summon it and send it right back where it came from—cake. Basic summoning ritual.<br/><br/>     There was a soft rustling that caused the shoe box next to his foot to tremble. The novice sorcerer who called himself Orphan stopped his sketching to sit upright on his knees and back on his calves. He set down the piece of chalk to quickly turn to the shoe box whispering to whatever was within, <em>Sh, ssh…</em><br/><br/>     He stored the box between his legs and gently straddled it to keep the creature within as he hunched back over to resume his drawing.</span>