***** Higher Education *****
Magic was the greatest gift Wilcox had ever received, or at least that was how he saw it. Life as an orphan had not been easy, and while he tried to convince himself that he was grateful for those early experiences, he knew he was lying. It had sucked, every moment of it had been terrifying, and it was not until he had almost been beaten to death by a local gang, that his powers had come to him.
Telepathy, he learned, was a rare gift. Not something many were born with, and a gift even fewer could master. By the time The Council had found him, he had already grown in his power more than most of the great wizards who had lived with their gifts for nearly a century — a realization that would have corrupted most people, but not Wilcox, who saw it as a grave responsibility.
It was ironic, he thought, that such a gift would be given to someone like him. Many of the wizards and witches he had met strove for greatness, clawing and clambering for attention and accolades, envying him his gift with thoughts of how they could have used it better. Yet there he was, joyous to learn, and eager to serve those that needed him, his telepathy making him acutely aware of just how much pain rested within each person. His desires always pulled him towards service, and while he recognized the various ways in which he could have abused the knowledge he gained over his fellow practitioners of magic, Wilcox always chose not to.
The truth was, he loved being a wizard. He loved all of it, learning under ancient masters, and observing wily tricksters who sought to fool all who approached. So much wisdom was there to be found in the actions of the kind, and the coldhearted alike.
So he was surprised when shortly after his apprenticeship had ended, that he would be stationed in Seattle. From what he understood, it was a pretty nice position to fill, and the Celestial Gate to the Pacific Northwest was anything but exciting. He often found himself wondering why he — of all people — would be stationed there.
Desmond, the director of The Council, had positioned him there in person, an honor no one had ever received. Despite that prestigious start, everything from that point forward was monotonous and boring, often making Wilcox wonder why it had been so important for him to be there. That was, until the attacks started.
Word spread fast, and it didn't take long for whispers to reach him within that small room in the heart of downtown Seattle. Gateways across Europe were falling, and while Daniel — his partner in tedium — seemed oblivious to the danger, Wilcox realized how important their jobs had become. Even with those frightful tales of destruction, the boredom continued on for weeks, until that fateful night a couple of days prior, when Caili came storming through the doorway from Seattle.
Her anger was righteous, consuming her so fully that she failed to realize she had lowered her mental blocks, opening a brief window into her mind. Through that portal, she revealed to Wilcox some small part of what she had been doing in the Pacific Northwest.
The vision had been brief, just a sliver of time where Wilcox saw a man who had been attacked, slumped against a tree with his chest torn open. The sight was gruesome, but what stood out to Wilcox was how Caili had felt about the man's assault. He was a stranger, but in a strange way she seemed to know and respect him. She was consumed with guilt, knowing that he did not deserve what had happened to him, and hated having to watch when she knew she could have saved him.
Just as fast as the door to her mind had opened, it slammed shut, and soon after she had vanished through the gate to the Celestial Realm. He had wanted to ignore what he saw, but knew he could not let it go unreported. Perhaps it was presumptuous of him, traveling to seek an audience with Desmond, but everything within him was telling him that what he had seen was the purpose for which he had been stationed there.
So it was that he traveled across the country, to the center of The Council's knowledge, an unassuming building that rested in a small podunk town in the middle of nowhere, Illinois. In reality, it was a gateway, he knew that, but still, the wonder of it was not enough to make him forget the strange otherness of the place. He would not have come there if not for his encounter with Caili, the woman's memory still lingering in his thoughts.
Wilcox found himself standing before a small single story house, long abandoned and weather worn from years of neglect, with uncertainty painting his face. The building was tucked back behind some trees at the edge of a swamp, the unmoving air causing the horrible methane scent of decay to linger and cling to Wilcox's nostrils. The door stood open, and light cascaded through numerous holes that had rotted through the roof, bathing the living room with unexpected light. He had been standing there for minutes, just trying to convince himself to enter, but his body refused to heed his command.
"Scholomance," he whispered, the single word hung in the open space, somehow defiling the scent of decay, and taunting him with the knowledge that he had to return.
With a deep breath, he reached out and closed the creaky door, and after relinquishing his breath, he drew a ward within his mind, binding himself to the intricate and well obscured designs that had been buried within the doorframe. The drain was not much, just enough to get the process started, and from there unknown magics worked in unknown ways.
A faint whistle began to sound out, drawing Wilcox's attention to the bottom of the door, where he could feel the air rushing to enter beneath the closed portal. He shook his head, and muttered every nascent thought that might distract him from the place he was being forced to enter.
The door was pulled from Wilcox's hand as he turned the handle, the air around him rushing to enter the now open school of magic. Unlike his other visits, he released the steel knob just before the inrush of air pulled him violently through the open doorway, where he collapsed to his hands and knees on an ornate rug which rested atop a cold stone floor. The soft material was thick, and protected him from the impact which would have been painful had the rug not been there.
Fresh air continued to pour in around him for another second, before everything became still as the sound of the door slamming shut behind him announced his arrival.
"Good evening, sir."
Wilcox stood and straightened his long jacket and pants, before turning his gaze on where he had just arrived.
The large reception room seemed to have been crafted from a single piece of obsidian, and the glossy-black walls would have made it difficult to get a sense of scale, if not for the paintings and banners which hung with exacting purpose throughout the massive room. As he looked at a section of wall that was exposed between a banner of an eagle, and a banner of a tortoise, he felt as if he could see a shifting tapestry of color dancing somewhere behind the fifteen-foot tall stone surface.
None of the people who sat and talked throughout the room seemed to have taken any notice of WIlcox's entrance, the scene of his arrival having become mundane to the residence of the magical place.
The tall and broad shouldered butler cleared his throat, before stating, "My apologies, sir, but I understand you are here to see Master Desmond."
