{ there’s a message from someone he does not know, for the call for high magic. in his world, he’s classically trained, and now he’s chasing magic only to better understand what sort he’s gotten himself into.

there’s no wellspring in abraxas. or, at least he thinks the singularity might be this world’s source of magic. their wellspring. eliot decides he has nothing better to do, and does come to a mossy little quaint place that reminds him of the physical kids cottage. he’s nearly hesitant before stepping inside as if it’ll return it back to the happy place, but shakes it off, waltzing into the establishment with a gist of nonchalant and the foolishness of stepping into unknown territory.

he’s here. he eyes the cup of tea. not his thing, but he does smile at the woman, who he assumes is the one who told everyone to come. he can tell she’s magic as he approaches. as a magician he just knows. }

Don’t tell me it’s just a tea bar? I once infused tea and alcohol as one of my mixology experiments. Hello. { he settles into the other end of the couch with a shrug of his shoulders and a somewhat saccharine-like spoken voice that shouldn’t be as relaxed as it seems. } Eliot. I’m from Thorne. You said magic, I’m magic, so why not show up? Tada.