ORIGIN

There was a time when Aethril slept under hazy, twilit skies. The air was fresh with lavender and laundry drying in the pale light. Her chest was light; rarely did she acknowledge the beating of her own heart. Sometimes a cat (Barney-- his name was Barney) would lay with her in the long grass, or on her belly, or curled up on her hair purring near her face. Aethril dreamt of these little memories often, when she wasn't plagued by nightmares of being hunted and killed by nefarious rebels.

She pined for that simplicity.

The Valkhand's luxury came with a price. She was powerful, she lived in comfort, she had a myriad of creatures making sure her stay in the caves was peaceful and welcoming but nevertheless, discomfort weighed on her mind. The Oilstone gem embedded into her sternum felt entrapping at times. It felt as though there wasn't enough space in her ribcage for her lungs to breathe and her heart to beat-- and no matter how hard she tried not to focus on it, she felt that thump-thump-thump drumming away in her ears.

This kind of over-stimulation led to... episodes. Aethril managed to avoid them (when had the last one been? When she watched that foul creature's limbs tear from its body by hellswans, or when she had flipped an owl inside out?) for the most part. She had great control over the Creator's magic and its effects on her mind, but it wasn't foolproof. Aethril wanted the taste of blood in her mouth. She wanted her heart to beat louder and faster. She wanted to tear something small and fragile apart.

She couldn't combat these urges with naps in the courtyard for much longer.

And how fitting that the Palace's gardens had a visitor. How fitting that Draconua was experiencing an 'episode' of her own, and how fitting that tucked away into a corner surrounded by sprigs of lavender, Aethril had been dozing away in a loose shirt with the sword she had been training with.

When the monster tore up grass and roots with her talons, Aethril awoke. Getting Draconua to stop was as simple as that: commanding her, scolding her, marching her back to Draco and leaving her with Vargas to deal with. For Aethril, however, it'd been at least two or three months since she had a good fight.

And damn, did she hunger for it.

Aethril rose and for a moment watched the Sleepless Chaos massacre a marble statue; crumbling it like chalk in her hands. She blinked the sleep away, and then she was marching forward, barefoot on soil and stone. "You've some nerve," the Hand told her; but she couldn't stop the smirk from growing across her face-- she couldn't stop herself from thanking whatever forces of fate for making Draconua so... Draconua.

A pulse of magic. The pain shot from her fingertips and up her forearm as violet-black lighting crackled and careened across the air, implanting itself into Draconua's meaty shoulder. There was something deeply euphoric about it, even as Aethril's fingers grew stiff and numb and the static in the air prickled at her face. Something extremely satisfying.

Draco could wait a few minutes, surely.

Pain. Forks of lightening connected with her gut and singed the cloth draping her shoulders. It left behind a criss-cross of violet-and-black webbing on the skin of her belly, smoldering like embers consuming paper. Her stomach churned and tensed-- and thankfully, Aethril had not eaten much that day, or she might have coiled over and threw up. As the burning melded into the same sensation of numbness and aching as her arm, there was intoxication in it.

"Is that all?" the Hand snarled through gritting teeth, her fingers clenching into her palm and nails breaking the skin. "Have you lost your spine? Having second thoughts?" Draconua didn't seem the type, at least-- not if she was going to trample the Palace gardens while knowing fine well who lingered here.

Still, if Draconua was going to fight back, Aethril wanted to taste her own blood in her mouth. She wanted to feel the blind rage that adrenaline offered. She wanted to--

She thought of the owl. No, not that far, she thought (quite reasonably). Magic flared and died out; faded away from her grasp before coming to fruition. Instead of backing off, however, her chin tilted upwards and she watched the Valkhound in front of her, nose wrinkling with a growl.

"Show me your worst."

Aethril could have laughed, if she weren't just as irritated by Draconua's failure as the Valkhound herself was. Not that that little detail stopped her from doing it anyway if just to taunt the Sleepless Chaos; a hearty little chortle rose from her throat, but there was very little emotion behind it.

The theatrics were more important. "Do you think it that easy?" She asked spitefully. "What do you take me for? I'm not some rat you can snap in half."

Technically she was, if Draconua decided to use her mouth in the next ten minutes-- but that much didn't matter for now. What mattered more to Aethril was that reaching out to His magic was still resulting in pitiful failures; a weak pulse resounded in the air and the pressure dropped only briefly. Not enough to do damage.

Back to taunting.

"Whenever you're ready," she hissed. "I dare you. I'll wait."

Draconua grew angrier; though Aethril couldn't tell if it were the beasts' failures or her own taunting that were contributing to it. The Hand said regardless, "were you jealous?" with a tone of mock-sympathy but this particular round of taunts did not last particularly long.

Try it! she might have said-- though if she were going to formulate anything better in response, it never came to her, for suddenly she was swept upside-down and soaring through the air like a bird. A bird that hit the cobblestone and skidded several inches on its shoulder with a sickening crunch as it hit the ground.

The tang of blood in the back of her throat. She spat the black ichor onto the ground in front of her-- and though she felt that surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, the dip of her belly, the newfound energy tingling in her arms, for a moment, she couldn't move.

A stupid, broken bird. Shit.

She breathed hard.

Copper in her mouth; pain in her chest. The beating of her own heart was deafening in her ears, but before she knew it she was being jerked around like a ragdoll and the soles of her feet touched the ground. Her knees tensed to keep herself upright, though she quickly found her own mind foggy and nonsensical.

And yet, "You've given no indication that it's attainable," she spat. Draconua wanted to see teeth? Aethril would show her teeth.

There was that adrenaline fueling her movements; the dip of her gut and the sweat beading on the back of her neck (or was that Draconua's saliva?) as she shifted, and with a burst of magic, exploded with a gout of roaring flame that latched onto the oil spilling from Draconua's face.

Like gasoline poured on a bonfire, the violet-black flames spread in a matter of seconds. Foul smoke billowed into the air as it burned both impossibly hot and cold at the same time, greedily consuming anything within its path.