Ixidor Glimpses

[Ixidor]

Symphonic orchestra of Liepaja and melo-m

Ixidor stood alone in a circle of candles an incense in the studio apartment he recently began calling home. These were among the few things unpacked, along with a guitar, a bass, and a pair of Marshall stacks in the corner. In sheer mass, that comprised the majority of Ixidor's belongings in Sacramento.

There were five candles in the outer ring for the Gross Arcana, and five bowls of incense between them in an inner circle for the Subtle. He stood facing the candle representing the Forces of reality. On his right, a steel wand was held over the bowl of Prime Arcanum. Behind and to his left, was the candle of Death. These were the Magica that held the most sway over his Awakened Path, and the ones of which he was the most aware.

Gone were his excessive adornments: the jewelry, the handkerchiefs, the eyeliner, the clothes. Ixidor stood there, clad in a single golden key draped around his neck, to represent his Watchtower. Raising both the wand and his other hand, Ix assumes the ready stance of a conductor.

The room, already silent, was somehow noticeably more so. As if in anticipation of what was to come.

Ixidor begins to conduct. It is a symphony of the Supernal, drawing power from beyond the Veil in all around him. He builds it slowly, starting with gentle, swaying motions, and a half-time feel. The music builds in a warm tone of rich complexity, the likes of which no sleeping mind has ever heard. They might not even hear it now, if any were nearby and the walls hadn't been properly soundproofed. Such was the nature of disbelief. But to any willworker, this is the beauty of the truth.

Still building steadily, Ixidor doesn't change his moderate tempo, but his actions gradually become more vigorous, changing the music's feel. His gestures blur the lines between those of mundane conducting and the mudras that direct spellcasting. Power ripples through the air around him, teasing at his wild mane of Beethovian hair and flickering the candles.

It is the music.

It is the Magic.

Here, they are one and the same.

Finally reaching a thunderous crescendo, the vibrations can now be felt in the solid realm. The floor, the walls, flesh and sinew, not just the air. Ix reaches the climactic note surely right as the Fallen World was about to be breached by the Void, but it doesn't. The Maestro instead allows the symphony to conclude, gently laying the music to rest. Soon, all is quiet and still once again.

Sinking to his knees on the floor, Ixidor is panting, sweating, and exhausted. But his pattern is now rich with mana.

[Ixidor]

Ixidor had something crazy running through his head all day. This is not unusual. What is unusual is that he had a full, classroom-size chalkboard rush delivered to his studio, to be waiting for him when he got there. It had been costly, but fuck it. This can't wait. The equations were real enough in his head, but had to be made physical.

Honestly, the most aggravating thing about the whole affair is the twenty minutes it takes Ix to drag the double-sided board up into his Hallow and set it up. A dry erase board might work just as well, as would simply writing on the walls, but something just felt right about doing it this way. He could stand it directly in the center of the small, circular room and work on both sides more or less at once.

Yes yes yes. This will work. Willwork. Hahaha.

A quick step out, and some ripping of cardboard later, Ixidor returns with two fistfuls of chalk. Throwing them hastily into the tray below the board, except for one piece, and he starts jamming.

"First, electrostatics and gravity..." Ix mutters to himself, scribbling Coulumb's law on his left, and Newton's law of universal gravitation on this right. Fundamental forces that shared many traits, he knew there was something arcane hidden in there. He'd seen it. God damn it, he'd seen it.

For good measure, and to save space for what he intended to do later, Ixidor drew the Atlantean pentagram in the center of the board between the two formulas before spinning it and doing the same on the other side (scattering chalk all over the floor, of course). On that other side, he began writing all of the appropriate phrases he knew knew in the tongue of power, occasionally rubbing one out with his shirt sleeve when it didn't mesh with the theory.

"Eraser. Knew I was forgetting something." The Theárch cackled madly.

For hours he does this. Throwing down any mathematical equation or formula that related to his ruling Arcana on one side, and then some rough Atlantean counterparts on the other. Formulas for waves in three dimensional space, as well as a basic one for combustion... at the end, it looks nothing like it started. Both sides are so crammed with notes and symbols that the board itself looks rather like a strange negative of Ixidor himself without a shirt. He is on a roll.

Except, truth eluded him. Always, there was the Lie. The so-called physical realm that resisted Ixidor's will. Threatening to undue his insight, taunting at his intellect. Anger wells up within him like some sudden monsoon. He isn't normally the type to lash out in rage, but this infuriates him beyond measure. The answer is right there. Right. Fucking. There. And he can't see it.

Gripping the top of the board in exasperation, Ix flings it downward with all his might, sending it into a spin it was surely never meant to do. He cries out with the effort of it, looking back up to the blurred image with boiling blood.

Click.

Screwing up his face in a truly bewildered expression of surprise and awe, Ixidor thought he saw something when everything blurred together. But, the board begins to slow too soon. So he gives it a nudge, studying intently the image created by the effect. Every few revolutions, a tap. Tap. Tap. What had been accidentally created there was marvelously complex. Astoundingly beautiful.

Ix is quite proud of himself.

When the revolutions are reasonably high, he raises a hand, poised to strike like a viper. Fingers waggle in anticipation as Ixidor matches up the timing. Then, quickly, he thrusts in a hand touches the Pentagram in the center of the board. It's like touching a lightning bolt.

When his head clears, Ixidor is lying on his back several feet away, laughing. The chalkboard is in two pieces, but the Rock Star's pattern is rich with Mana.

And people say Math is boring.

[Ixidor]

Ixidor stood leaned over the sink in the bathroom of his studio apartment. Even after this many months, the only thing he'd really unpacked was one suitcase full of clothes and pills. The latter of which is disappearing rapidly. A small handful of the menagerie is laid out on the counter before him, slowly gaining some semblance of order, as Ix organized them with a careful finger. He sings along to the tune of White Rabbit as he goes, adapting the words to suit him.

"One pill gets you higher~
One pill makes you fall
And that pill don't do shit
'Cuz it's only Tylenol
Go ask Axl
(dutta dutta dut DAH)
'Cause his shit's the beeest..."

He is either unaware of the woman slapping on the other side of the door, or is ignoring her altogether.

"blah blah blah--
LOGIC! And proportion!
Something or other~ sloppy dead"


Ixidor's unoccupied fist shot into the air as he nodded vigorously in time to his favorite part, the wild mane of black hair making it even more of a spectacle. He's getting loud...

"And the White Knight
Is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's--er
something, head!"

Scraping a few chosen morsels off the counter, Ixidor prepares to send them on their way, bellowing the last few lines at a volume that some that some can only manage with Arcana. But Ix does it from a lifetime of experience with singing at the top of his lungs.

"Re~emembeeeeerrrr
What the doorknob saaaaaid
Feed your heeeeaaaad
Feeeed your he~eeeaaad!"

Nom.

Gulp.

"Adrian!"

The rest of the pills are scooped into a bottle, then a sock, and are rolled up and tucked safely into the clothes hamper. Ixidor opens the bathroom door to the confused face of last night's good time, swigging a shot from the bottle of Captain Morgan he'd dragged from the counter as he exited.

"What the fuck were you doing in there?"

Ixidor shoves the bottle into her hands as he lopes past.

"Makin' you prettier," comes the mumble under his breath.

"What!?"

Instead of answering, ha ambles silently toward his Baby, the Gibson Thunderbird propped in its case against the wall. Sooner or later, the girls always took the hint and left.

The real song