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Post by Lysander Davenport on Jun 13, 2013 20:00:17 GMT -8
The musky scent was the first thing Lysander had noticed when he stepped into the tiny apothocary. He hadn't been in a ship like this for years and the last time had had been it had earned Sander a ciggerate burn on his left forearm. Even though that was no longer a fear, it still made his heart jump in his chest, like an old school cartoon. Scratching at the leathery scar on his forearm, Lysander began to move through the alises, full of objects that most would classify as the occult. He supposed that fear was what had bred the hatred towards him and his kind. Lysander's father was the perfect example, for fear of being prosuceted he had tried to stomp the light out of his own children. As a result, Lysander felt as if he had to keep his heritage a secret. Embrassingly enough, the opinon that mattered to him the most was Benjamins. They hadn't even been dating for long enough, the rejection would not have hurt as much as it had hurt to be disowned by his family. Benjamin had been teaching him English, and that was the only reason he was even able to go shopping by himself.
Lysander picked up a bottle of spell ingredients and balanced the tiny bottle between his fingers. It was for practise, but the pessimist in Lysander had decided that it also might be a good idea to start building up an emergency arsenal of spells. This town seemed to be infested with vampires, after all. Lysander did a double glance around the shop, wandering around to see if the little mystic shop had anything else that captured his eye. So far, nothing, but this warlock wasn't entirely sure what he could possibly need. His grandmother would have known, of course. But she was at her book club, or something.
Didn't matter though, as long as he left with something and as long as he actually knew what the bottle said.
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