Chapter Text
Mituland, Capital - 2017.
"...Film at 11" said the news anchor, it was a live broadcast.
"The art of Thaumality is a practice that-" “Look, Mike, we don’t say it like that anymore,” his co-anchor interrupted.
"Shut up now, Diane! I'm trying a new style here, y'know what I'm sayin?" replied the infuriated journalist. Diane just shook her head.
"So back to where we've left with..." Mike adjusted his tie as he continued, "the Art of Thaumality is a practice that humanity has been familiar with for millennia. Reportedly, ever since the beginning of the world itself..." his voice appears solemn.
"Its roots can be traced back to the sylvas scattered around the world, which are specific areas of nature saturated with thaumalic energy, such as minerals for instance. Practitioners, called thaumalists, would draw this energy from the sylvas into their soul and shape it with skill and will.”
"And nowadays sylvas are notorious for being widely accessible to our societies", Diane added. "They appear in many shapes, sizes and forms. To list a few..." the co-anchor then took a script, and adjusted her eye-glassess as she began speaking off the list.
"The marvelous leaves found in Japan; Aries Crystals which are very common anywhere you go; and the Crimson Lake found in fewer countries, unfortunately excluding ours..."
“Still waiting on our tourism board to care,” Mike muttered.
"Now unto another news!" Mike suddenly snapped back to life, readjusting his tie and clearing his throat. A new segment was ready to air.
"Speaking of thaumality, we were going to interview one of the greatest thaumalists of all time here in Kenopia... Ghandy Ramada!"
"And at only eighteen years old," Diane added, "he is an extraordinary who already mastered it at its zenith..."
Mike held his earpiece, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m getting word that he’ll be making it to the studio in just a few minutes. He's reportedly returning from a two-hour-long journey with some friends-- something about a quest for slyvas in an undisclosed field. Sounds like it got a little wild. We better prepare before his arrival."
"Can’t wait to hear what story he has to tell," Diane replied, half-smiling, already flipping through her notes. "Let’s just hope it doesn’t involve another miniature landslide."
Mike gave a dry chuckle. “Not again.”
The studio lights buzzed. Mike tapped his cue cards. Diane adjusted her mic.
A quiet breeze slipped through the hallway door.
No one noticed him step in. Not the crew, not the anchors. He moved like light through glass.
Ghandy Ramada stood behind the cameras, brushing some red dust off his blue coat.
"Greetings."
He looked up, eyes catching the overhead lights, and said calmly,
“I'm Ramada, hope I’m not late."