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[color=#B8041A][[/color] Nox Arcanum [color=#B8041A]][/color] | [color=#B8041A][[/color] [@Wolfieh] [color=#B8041A]][/color]
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Kaspar’s months passed… quite tamely, all things considered. His time in the Forked Tower provided significant learning and practice on Dark Magic, but after that week, there wasn’t exactly opportunity to learn [i]or[/i] practice. Instead, his studies were relegated to those overseen by the academy. In the wake of a new forbidden magic, even his research into Blood Magic fell by the wayside, remaining little more than theoretical. 

Despite his keen knowledge that he’d developed feelings for Ayla, the boy did not admit them to anyone—least of all their subject. He would, someday. But it was a matter of timing, and their were other things he felt she deserved to know first. He’d picked out the right moment, though—in no small part thanks to Ahn-Dami. Now, he simply needed to wait. 

He did, surprisingly, begin spending much more time with another student: Ingrid Penderson. After his purchase of a lifetime supply of barbecue sauce, she had approached him with an offer. Over several discussions, the two agreed to be business partners—Kaspar, with the idea and the sauce, and Ingrid with the funds and experience. 

It had been itching at the back of his mind since Torragon—like some faded memory he couldn’t quite grasp. Sausages, served like sandwiches… He blamed it in part for the inspiration of Varmkorv’s name. 

Varmkorv, who’s banded red shell had begun to crack. Who had not yet emerged, but was preparing to. Tomsøthet and Blåbærterte spent more time by the egg than ever, almost as if they fancied themselves its parents. Feit-og-Sint would watch it from underneath the cupboard, staying awake into the long hours of the night. 

In the recent week, Kaspar had been much more focused on preparing his outfit for Nox Arcanum. Brilliant reds and golden accents, smatterings of black in the details. Something regal, deserving of his noble blood—he smirked a little, every time he thought of it. An intricate metal mask, in the shape of a wolf’s head. No one else would know its significance, but he remembered the tapestry that had hung over Alaric Weber’s bed. 

Hand-woven by his father, the face of a wolf on a swirling, deep green background. One that his father would look at with a sense of pride, before he’d lean down to whisper its meaning to Alaric. [color=#1E7262]“That’s our family crest. Not like nobles, who signify their name,”[/color] he would say, lips pressed against his son’s hair in a smile. [color=#1E7262]“No, it’s what we stand for. We’re a pack. That means we stick together, always.”[/color]

He wondered what happened to that tapestry, after. If they had another child, and passed it on to them—or if his mother was too scared that it might turn out just the same. If they stuck together; did his father feel the same fear Lark had? Did he agree to send Alaric away, or did he only learn afterward? Did he forgive his wife for it? 

At eight, when he still cried at the nightmares, he’d sometimes wonder—[i]hope[/i]—that his father was out there, trying to find him. Because they were a pack. They stuck together. 

Always.

Kaspar Elstrøm von Wentoft slid the mask over his face, departing into the early hours of Nox Arcanum.

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