Hael calls it the blood ore when she finds it, and hauls all that she can home from the mines. She doesn’t dump it in the smithy, with everyone else’s metals. She hauls it home, and she stores it, carefully, in her room. Tucked behind clothes, under her bed, in the drawers of her desk. She pulls up her loose floorboard, takes out the few things she’d kept there before, to keep Michael and Jophiel and Anael from them, and puts the blood ore there instead.

In the end she finds she has collected a round 60 kilograms, and when she sleeps she feels as though the metal is singing to her blood.

She is twenty-two when she finds the electrum ingots, forged by goblin hands, and abandoned deep in the mine. She takes it to the goblins at the bank - they had taught her much of smithing, once she had learned the right way to ask - and they tell her to keep it.

“The ingots,” they say, “Belong to their finder, see here,” and long fingers point to goblin Cyrillic, and translate the Gobbledegook words for her, “We wait in the dark for one who will bring us to light. You found them. They are yours.”

The old goblin cracks a sharp-toothed smile, “Show us what you make, won’t you?”

It is with a nervous smile that Hael promises to.

When she has brought the electrum home the metal in her room comes to almost one hundred kilograms. Sixty of the blood ore, still glowing, pulsing with blood and silver and some innate magic that Hael does not yet know, but thinks it might have been Goblin made, or even Dwarf. The electrum is only twenty kilograms, but the remaining eighteen comes out in brooches, and mail gloves, and a helmet, and two hammers, three pairs of forge tongs, two mouse traps, one pet cage, and a sack of loose coinage from around the world.

Hael looks at the pile, feels the blood ore singing to her blood, and hauls it all down to the forge. No one else is home, and she’s sure her parents would warn her against listening to the singing metal, remind her of the old magics, the dark magics that can do that.

But it sings to Hael in the same voice as the forge, and her hammer, and the electrum sings it too, pure and good electrum from the Goblins.

She heats the forge as warm as she dares, and starts to hum the firesong she learned at the Veela gatherings.

Sometimes, as she works, she feels almost as though the forge-fire might burn her, and she sings the song of change instead. Her Veela-self rises to the fore, over Berserker, over human, over wix. Feathers dust her hair, and are themselves dusted with soot, flames tingle over her fingertips, and her nose turns hard as a beak.

She builds the flames hotter, and sings the song of new life from flames, the song sung around the ashes of the bonfires, to make the grass grow green again.

She sings, and she works, melting metals and mixing them, and singing in her spells and enchantments.

It takes days to do it, she realises later. The songs sustained her, as they tend to when she sings so long, and she feels only slightly hungry when she emerges. Her parents say they looked into the forge, her siblings say they heard her singing, heard the hammer and the tongs, and Hael just remembers the flames and the embers, the glowing metal and the song of the blood ore.

What she has made seems, at first, to be a hammer. It looks midway between bronze and brass and gold, with the weight of the last, and the hardness of iron, and a colour which swirls like it is alive in the flickering light of the flames.

When Hael presses her hand to the handle, ready to pick it up, it changes.

The handle is now a hand. Big, and still metal, and joined to a huge arm, attached to a huge shoulder, and huge torso, and in general a huge man. Hael has never been tall, and she feels smaller than ever in front of her accidental creation. The metal man stands.

Hael watches. Hael thinks. Hael speaks. “Who are you?”

The metal man blinks. Considers. Speaks. “I don’t know. There were flames, and song.”

Hael’s eyes narrow. “Will you hurt me?”

The metal head tilts, metal eyes blink, and a metal tongue speaks. “No.”

“Will you hurt my family, or my friends?”

“No.”

There is a pause. “Will you let me name you?”

The metal man’s mouth turns, in something which could almost be a smile, and he nods. Hael grins.

“Right. How does Philadelphos sound?”

He remembered before. Remembered a city of gold and stone and coral, rising and falling and floating, magic intermingled with technology in ways incomprehensible to the magic users he saw now.

He remembered the Great Octopi, huge, immense creatures, in the canals of the city, or resting over the buildings, minds tied to all of theirs, and choosing the best to lead, the best to help, the best to guide.

He remembered the storm that ripped through the city, of magic and malice, and something else, something from deep within the ocean that was the core of their selves, something that, for so many, took away even the will to live as their home was taken from them.

He remembered drifting. The currents of the ocean are wide and deep, and Uur knew them to be eternal. He did not need to breathe of air, for he could breathe of water just as easily. Did not need to eat, for his magic could sustain him. Did not age, because he could live many millennia longer, if he chose.

He was startled, when he first drifted past the remains of the city. Much of the outer was gone now, and the ocean had reformed it from a wide hemisphere under a flat plane into a twisting orb, corridors and halls changed, canals gone, gardens covered over with the rich deep glass his people had learned to weave from the gifts given by what the ever-growing humans called Venus’ flower baskets.

It woke something in him, something that had last stirred when he had drifted past the beginning of Mesopotamia, and saw the Apkallu, half his people, half something else, trying to teach the burgeoning civilisation. It was hope, a single moment that dragged on and on, as the current slowed in a curlicue, and let him free enough from its grip just enough to turn, and to see what remained.

There were parts missing, that he could see. The huge core of the city, the Sanctuary, had been torn out of it, and, deep in the darkness beneath the floating mass, he could almost feel other fragments of his home calling to him, singing out from the depths. But he could see the bright light and warmth of magic that came from the Places of Serenity, could feel the singing magic of his home, and at last he reached for his own magic, and pushed himself out of the current, free of the flow, and towards his home.

Yuval, Part 2.

Yuval was not expecting it, that people would blast down the door of the house to get to him. That they would take his father’s wand from him, knock him to the ground, bind him with Incarcerous. It was worst, worst of all, when he heard one of them give the order to exhume his father, heard the quaking groan of the pine tree he had grown at the grave as it was cut down, a creaking heartsong of sorrow that left him crying on the floor of his father’s house.

He barely registered that the Aurors called him “it”.

Mod Announcement

Mod Aich here again!

After some work and administration-ly shuffling, this blog is now updated! We have a new Denizens page, where you can learn about the various sentient creatures inhabiting the school, and the staff-page-that-was has been updated to three pages, including some new staff members and subjects, for the Administrative and Services Faculty, Half the Teaching Staff, and The Other Half of the Teaching Staff. I’m also glad to say that hopefully over the next few days there will be some new posts on this blog, and most certainly some new ones over at blatherversity.

Hello!

Hi everyone. Your usual mod, D.W., has been very very ill of late, and has asked me to help out around this blog, and blatherversity for a while. Hopefully with this activity over here will increase somewhat, and updates will be more regular. Also it may mean some more images from this blog, dependent on if the image owners are willing. 

If you’re not certain who I am; Hi! I’m Aich. I run several HP Headcanon blogs of my own, and I’ve sent in submissions here before. I’ve been friends with D.W. for a while, and with their illness as bad as it has become, they’ve allowed me to help out here some. Feel free to shoot me asks over the next few days, as I try to get stuff up and running, and I hope you all hope with me that D.W. is better soon, and able to do as they want again, without their illness interfering.

What's this? A preview of things to come?

I'm so sorry, all! Tumblr doesn't display the little message notification! But rest assured that I'm so, so, so very grateful for every kind word you bubble my way!

Not dead!

Hello, my little angelfish! I'm deeply sorry for the inactivity. Blatherskite is not shut down, nor is it going to be deleted, or turned into an archive, or anything of the sort. Life has been... interesting, of late, and I haven't been able to do as much as I've wanted to, though I'm going to revamp the blog soon!

If you're curious about just what has been going on, go ahead and click through.

Sanctuary (ˈsaŋ(k)tjʊəri/)

Noun

Etymology: Middle English (in sense 3): from Old French sanctuaire, from Latin sanctuarium, from sanctus ‘holy’. Early use in reference to a church or other sacred place where a fugitive was immune, by the law of the medieval Church, from arrest.

They call it Sanctuary, the place that none could get to, that people entered only with permission, and left unutterably changed. The room was large, was lit differently depending on who entered. In the centre was a Serenity, or at least, so it appeared. It looked like the Serenitys scattered through the school, the bubbles of ocean trapped beneath and between corridors, showing everything from Glass fish, to jellyfish, to clown fish, to Venus’ Flower Baskets. But it was different.

They call it Sanctuary, meaning a place of protection, as though it was alive. How protective is something which shows you the truth of who you are, all your follies alongside your virtues, no rhyme or reason to it, no order, just truth as though that can create order from the chaos of one’s own true mind? They call it Sanctuary as though it is safe.

Maybe it is.

They call it Sanctuary, meaning holy place, and mayhaps that fits better, for only the Headmaster choses who is permitted to see it, the greatest of the Serenitys, the one which ties them all together. The Headmaster, older than the school, locks the door with spells older still, spells without words, with a magic no longer known, which only he may undo. It is holy to him, a place to be valued and protected.

Sanctuary is old, people say, older than the school, the bubble of Serenity trapped there first, before the world was as it is now, before the flora and fauna of the world were quite settled. Trapped before the Ice Age, before the Fall.

Which Fall? Some ask, but no one who knows the answer will say.

It is Sanctuary, people say, a Sanctuary from the lies your own mind will tell you, and a Sanctuary from your own self. It shows you your falsehoods and follies and failures, and then it shows you how to fix them, and how to keep fixing them.

It is Sanctuary, they say, those who have seen it and come out steadier souls, stronger minds, and better selves for it. It protects and heals and it shows you your failings and tells you how to fill each faultline of your very self.

It is Sanctuary, the Headmaster says, and his tone when he says it is as certain and implacable as the sea. It is Sanctuary, it is protection and it is holy and it shows truths in a way that laws meant to protect and people meant to be holy do not. It shows truths that are cruel and truths that are kind side by side for they are equal and even to Sanctuary, for they are true.

The magic of Sanctuary imbues every Serenity, it is what makes each of them serene, even as one fish eats another and small, sparkling scales scatter to the sands.

So it is called Sanctuary, for all the changes it has wrought on people, it is called Sanctuary, holy place, because that is what it is.

The list of the familiars accepted at Blatherskite includes several familiars usually seen on other schools' lists, including (but certainly not limited to):

But Blatherskite also accepts several more familiars, including (but, again, entirely not limited to):

Special Programmes and Conditions:

Most of the familiars accepted by Blatherskite can be useful for students with special needs. Blatherskite is the proud pioneer in wix-familiar communications magicks, though cautions that these spells and procedures are still in their infancy, and not at all mandatory.

Students are free to choose if (and to what extent) they wish to participate in Linking, where a student's mind is magically Linked--to a point--with their familiar. There are, of course, advantages and disadvantages, and students who choose to Link are free to choose to dissolve the Link at any moment. Blatherskite respects every student's right to choose.

Students who feel it necessary to take their familiars to classrooms are free to do so so long as the familiar is well-trained. Students who feel capable of caring for more than one familiar may apply to have their familiars recognised as service animals (or, in the case of pixies, aids), and a second creature may be brought to live with said student. Students may have more than one service animal, Linked or otherwise. 

For those students averse to Linking but still wishing to have a familiar to aid them in day to day life, Blatherskite has unique species of cephalopods which are capable of learning International Magical Sign Language, as well as bats capable of communicating via audible variants of echolocation for those students with difficulty hearing, vocalising, or seeing. There are also available, in limited number, echolocation talismans, which allow the bearer to use something akin to bat and dolphin echolocation to find their way around Blatherskite's winding, serpentine corridors.

For students who prefer to remain wholly as they are, the Blatherskite staff includes a full roster of professors who specialise in special-needs teaching. Blatherskite provides dictation books and braille books for those with impaired vision, as well as large print books. For access to these books outside of a classroom environment, students need only notify the librarian, Madam Marie Hart, whether in sign language, verbally, or in writing. All corridors, doors, potions ingredients, menus, and every edition of the school paper are labeled with or contain braille, and a simple wandless, nonverbal spell will be taught to students who want to switch printed words into braille or label something themselves.

Blatherskite prides itself in being the most wheelchair-accessible magical school in the world, with gently sloping corridors in lieu of stairs, wheelchair-accessible classrooms, wheelchair-accessible dining halls, wheelchair-accessible toilets, and wheelchair-accessible sleeping quarters.

Some notes regarding and disadvantages to Linking:

Notes on the familiars:

essayofthoughts replied to your post:essayofthoughts replied to your photo:[x] His...

Well, actually, the deadliest jellyfish in the world are the box jellyfish, and some of the species of box jellyfish are the Common Kingslayer and the Irukandji, some of the smallest species of jellies in the world! The Kingslayers, for example, have bells that are usually only 3cm long!

These jellies are found around Blatherskite, actually, and the school's swimming pool and other water pools are specifically warded against such jellies.

essayofthoughts replied to your photo:[x] His first breath was his father’s last. ...

Ah, I'm so glad that you liked it!

His first breath was his father's last.

Clay, earth, water, and blood were only some of what went into crafting his shell, shaped and sculpted and painstakingly measured and adjusted. Countless failures surrounded him, lining the walls and propped up against tables and chairs. Most wore serene expressions of sleep and peace, but others--the newer ones--sported grimaces that ranged from uncomfortable to agonising, and the cracked, sharp-edged holes in their faces and heads told the story of their gifts of mercy.

When he woke on a table, lights flickering around him and pieces of crockery stuck to his skin, the first thing he thought was, Juval is my father's name. The second, bafflingly enough, was, Yuval is my name. He sat up and looked down at his fingers and hands, flecked with blood and mud and clinging clay, at the muscles twitching experimentally in his thighs, at his wiggling toes. He shifted and more fragments of baked, leftover clay fell off of the tabletop, clattering to his right and falling with hushed thumps to his left.

Curious at this, Yuval looked over the edge of the table to see what was causing the anomaly and discovered his father's lifeless corpse, spread haphazardly along the floor where he had fallen and newly covered with clay fragments. A great sadness overcame him, and he stood with the intention of coming to his father's side.

His legs, still weak from birth, gave out underneath him.

On the floor, Yuval looked into the face of the man that had given him life and reached up to touch his withered face. His father had been an attractive man, once. Worry and stress had given him many lines, but there was still something very proud about him all the same. Yuval thought he looked handsome even in death, though his skin felt soft and fragile as tissue. In one hand, he clutched a small, thin book. In the other, almost fallen from his fingers, he held a polished stick.

Yuval sat up and carefully took these things from him, gingerly setting the stick aside and opening the palm-sized tome. The leather binding it was worn soft and supple with age and use, and Yuval was surprised to note that he could read the curious symbols scrawled on the pages within. One of the nearby lights--a candle, his mind supplied--floated nearer to aid him in the dimness, and he bent his head to read.

Human wizards are very arrogant. Coming from a Drow, that says a great deal.

Unless you had a wand, you were somehow lesser. Weaker. Woefully unenlightened, mystical, exotic and uncomprehending of the true wonders of magic. Poor creature. They'd make room for you somehow in this world, where you'd live dreadfully disadvantaged. Fear not. They'd educate and guide you, and perhaps you, too, could achieve some meagre greatness by proxy.

It made him sick.

He was Ruathym of House A'Daragon, blood of one of the oldest lines in the Underdark, an elite assassin who proudly served Lolth the Spider Queen and was blessed by her, becoming the first Curseborn in generations. He was smarter, faster, deadlier than most other Drow. Where most humans needed sticks and words, he could kill with a glance or a gesture--tear the sanity in a person's head up from the roots and crush it in his fingers like a dry clod of earth.

Trouble was, no one gets to shine in the Underdark without attracting their fair share of predators. Day and night, he was hunted. Poisons, swords, daggers, magic. All were used against him for what seemed to him every waking moment, and there were even some ambitious attempts when he achieved reverie.

Such are Drow, competitive and cruel, vicious when upstaged or outranked, but never barbaric. No, not they. Soft and subtle, that was the way. Courtesy and charm even in the face of your most hated rival. Trust no one, but aim to be trusted. All the sweeter it was to betray them.