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Private legend of the enchanted log

Ciri

The Witcher
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145
May 31st, Y109
@Iandore Lightfoot

"Oy," Ciri greeted breathlessly as she approached one teal-skinned elven eared youth, a large and presumably heavy cardboard box hauled over her shoulder. She tipped her head toward it, brows lifting. "I believe this is yours."
 
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Whirling around, Ian stopped short, staring at the silver-haired woman he had never seen before in his life and then proceeding to stare at the heavy-looking cardboard box she had over shoulder. "... Uh," he murmured, his big brown eyes squinting with confusion. "... No? I don't ... I mean, I don't ... think so." Over his shoulder was the distinct sight of ... half a man. A pair of khakis, some purple striped socks, and a pair of shoes. His foot was tapping impatiently and you could almost imagine the upper half of him, arms all folded. Only there was nothing there, just air and a bit of blue sparkly magic drifted out from the top of the pants.
 
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Ciri

The Witcher
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"Oh, but it is," the ashen-blonde hummed without skipping a beat. "The hag was very emphatic that this must go to the lad hauling about the bewitched pants—which are very festive, by the way!"
 
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By time she was done, Ian was scrunching up his nose and turning to look over his shoulder at his dad, expecting him to suddenly be wearing a pants version of an ugly Christmas sweater. Nope. Slowly, he turned back. "... They're just khakis."
 
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Ciri

The Witcher
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"Never heard of bewitched pants called kah-keys before," Ciri returned blithely, thanks to her yet to be filled gaps in popular culture knowledge, and there was a great deal to keep up with. It was a little overwhelming. In any case, she gently laid the box before the youth, dropping to a crouch. "Now let's see..." Adopting a faintly skeptical expression, she ripped the cardboard flaps open.

To a wash of blinding blue light that smelled pleasantly of detergent.
 
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What?

Was she okay?

Then again, she looked kind of ... old-timey. Maybe that was it.

Ian tried to focus instead on the box she was laying on the ground before him and Ian couldn't help but shuffle forward a little bit, standing over both her and it as he tried to get a better look. Only his eyes burst open wider as she opened the box to a flood of blinding blue light. His widening eyes squinted immediately as he backed off a few steps, but there was no denying his interest.

"Is that magic?!"
 
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Ciri

The Witcher
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"The hag was probably - definitely - a witch, so... yes?" She had the benefit of being positioned behind the box and stilled had to look away and wince, just long enough for the light to fade.

And when it finally did, at the bottom of the box glistened with a stout log which smelled of those fabric softener sheets she deployed with her laundry.

"So..." Glancing upward, she considered the youth with a lift of her brows. "What is it, exactly?"
 
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His eyes were on her for a moment and then they dropped again as the light faded, staring at the ... log. It was a log.

Definitely a log.

"Is it a ... a magic ... log ...?"

Judging by the look on his face, Ian looked slightly shocked, slightly afraid, and was now staring at the silver-haired girl again. "... Are you gonna touch it?" Probably the wrong question, given it was ... apparently for him.
 
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Ciri

The Witcher
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Brows hiking up toward her hairline, Ciri clapped her gloved hands together in a warmly support.

"Now then," she pulled herself back up to her feet, whilst the log continued to sparkle audibly within its cardboard nest. "This was supposed to me my good deed for the day. I'm really just the courier..." After glancing around for a bit, an aha! puffed from her lips as she identified and snatched up a twig from the ground and tossed it experimentally inside the box.

A puff of blue smoke sputtered out, carrying with it more of that detergent smell.
 
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His eyes widened a fraction as the puff of the blue smoke sputtered out and he took a little step backward, said big brown eyes darted back toward her. "Wait! Wait-- You can't leave me here with it. I'm not-- I am not touching it!"

If Barley were here, he would've touched it.

"You gotta touch it."
 
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"Okay, listen, that's different," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at dad who was trying to wander away. The leash attached to his belt buckle wouldn't let him.
 
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Ciri

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She crossed her arms over her chest, dropping her gaze curiously to the box on the ground. By all rights her deed was done... but something in her simply itched to find out what this was all about.

"Ugh, fine." She swooped down with her gloved hands to quickly recover the log. It bounced frenetically between her palms like a hot potato at first, a faint blue aura following its motions, before settling in her right hand. Finally, she raised it up into the sunlight victoriously. "See? In one piece!"

A moment later...

"Oh, and it smells very clean."
 
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Eyes going wide as he watched the way she bounced the log between her palms like a hot potato, he couldn't help the way that he took yet another step back. At the rate he was going, he would be on the other side of Misty Hollow in ten minutes. The whole entire ordeal made him nervous. As much as magic totally fascinated him in a way he would never ever in a million billion years admit to, it scared him. After all, it had brought back only half of his dad. How was he supposed to be feeling?

"... So it's ... what? A laundry log? Does it do laundry? Do I fold my laundry on it? Do I hang things on it?" Scrunching up his nose, Ian was probably thinking way too hard about it all. Looking back, though, he froze.

Did she seem taller?

The young wizard's gaze dropped to the ground as he realized.

"Um ..."

How did he tell her?

Shoot.

"... You're, uh ... kind of ... um-- you're floating. You're literally floating. Oh my god."

She was getting higher.

"Oh my god."
 
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Ciri

The Witcher
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The log was much lighter than the package. And decidedly non-toxic to the touch, at least from what she could tell from the lack of erosion on her (very literally) handy dandy gloves. "It's harmless," Ciri reassured with a much relieved grin. She hadn't delivered the magical equivalent of a bomb to an unsuspecting blue youth with animated pants on his shoulder. Very good!

Maybe she should've verified that ... before ...

Now all that was left to do was to hand it back to its proper recipient. She held it toward him expectantly, the faint blue mist wafting from the log like a fine steam. All harmless.

And then the boy began to shrink.

Drawing her brows together, she shifted her weight to one of her feet quizzically, online to find herself weightless. Still holding the log forward, she glanced downward, her scrutiny immediately shifting into a disbelieving comprehension.

Oh, he wasn't shrinking. She was hovering. And getting higher.

"Oh, fuck!" she breathed. Her legs swished in the steadily rising air beneath her. Either thinking too quickly or without thinking at all, she chucked the log right at the blue lad whilst floating six feet and plus above the ground. "... Catch!"
 
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