[ There's some good things and there's some bad things about trying to unfuck literally all of magic. Traveling to a brand new world to fix it is squarely in the middle, in a 'really cool but I hope it's nothing like Game of Thrones' sort of way. Jury's still out, but so far, it's just a peaceful forest.
His friends are all scattered to the four winds--four worlds, technically--and Quentin's got the solo op. Magic is gone both on Earth, in the fantastic land of Fillory, and if they're going to get it back, they need to track down seven golden keys, which is about as vague and frustrating as it sounds.
So he's here, on some world they know extremely little about other, and he'd be lying to himself if he wasn't a little bit excited when he'd emerged from the portal and smelled it in the air: magic. Magic's gone back home, but here, it's alive. It's stronger than anything he's ever experienced, like a constant electric charge in the air. It ripples through him, and he's not ashamed to admit he spends a solid three minutes with his eyes closed, just soaking it in.
It feels good. More than good--for a brief moment, Quentin Coldwater feels alive. Temporarily, his life has meaning.
He wanders aimlessly for most of the day and a little into night, mostly just trying to find some form of civilization, or some sign of people. There's some form of smoke in the distance--a campfire, it looks like, and Quentin forges ahead.
He looks strange in comparison. He knows it already--this place is far more medieval than New York, and he's got a backpack, jeans, a flannel a henley, long hair tied into a bun. He's expecting peasants, maybe, as he moves towards the campsite (he's not exactly quiet about it, he's got the gait of a New York City ivy league kid when it comes to the woods). ]
Hey--uh--I need directions, and, uh--
[ That is a very, very large bull-like man he sure is staring at. ]
first meeting;
His friends are all scattered to the four winds--four worlds, technically--and Quentin's got the solo op. Magic is gone both on Earth, in the fantastic land of Fillory, and if they're going to get it back, they need to track down seven golden keys, which is about as vague and frustrating as it sounds.
So he's here, on some world they know extremely little about other, and he'd be lying to himself if he wasn't a little bit excited when he'd emerged from the portal and smelled it in the air: magic. Magic's gone back home, but here, it's alive. It's stronger than anything he's ever experienced, like a constant electric charge in the air. It ripples through him, and he's not ashamed to admit he spends a solid three minutes with his eyes closed, just soaking it in.
It feels good. More than good--for a brief moment, Quentin Coldwater feels alive. Temporarily, his life has meaning.
He wanders aimlessly for most of the day and a little into night, mostly just trying to find some form of civilization, or some sign of people. There's some form of smoke in the distance--a campfire, it looks like, and Quentin forges ahead.
He looks strange in comparison. He knows it already--this place is far more medieval than New York, and he's got a backpack, jeans, a flannel a henley, long hair tied into a bun. He's expecting peasants, maybe, as he moves towards the campsite (he's not exactly quiet about it, he's got the gait of a New York City ivy league kid when it comes to the woods). ]
Hey--uh--I need directions, and, uh--
[ That is a very, very large bull-like man he sure is staring at. ]
Jesus fuck.