ORIGIN

Her father had warned her to be more vigilant with her magic: and that's what she was about to do.

...Actually, his exact words had been a bellowed "PRACTICE YOUR FIRE" or something along those lines. But with a potential battle coming up--or at least an assassination--she wanted to not engulf herself in flames this time.

Svartis had been practicing his own magic; they were on standby, for one another. Their magics tended to cancel one another out well enough that if Bone literally set herself on fire, or Svartis froze himself in ice, they could free the other or save them, as necessity dictated.

Right. Let's start off small, Bone decided, holding out one clawed forelimb where she sat, perched, on a ledge. She'd work with wisps, first; and, once she could manage them properly, move to trying it in flight.

If she managed that, maybe she could risk breathing flame again--but she didn't want to jump straight into that, again. Not after last time. Burn scars criss-crossed her hide, a foul reminder of the results of her ill-advised, impulsive blast of untrained magic.

It was time, at least, to rectify the "untrained" part.

The dragon focused on her claws, wiggling them briefly, concentrating on forming a ball of phosphorescent, arcane fire to hover there, first.

With a soft hiss, a phosphorescent ball of magical firelight appeared in her clawed 'hand.' She watched this, her head tilting.

One down.

She concentrated, carefully removing her hand, controlling the wisp's movements.

Could she add a second to the first-? She focused, again, quiet for a moment, pale eyes locked on the wisp, the same color as her ghostfire gaze.

After a long moment, a second joined the first: another quiet hiss, and a ball of magic flickered into being. She sent this one to hover beside the first, and for a long moment she simply watched them, resting her mind and satisfied with herself. It wasn't particularly draining magic, but it had worked, and that was what mattered.

Practice, practice, practice.

...They were pleasing to look at, really, and something about their slightly-erratic hovering made her feel as though they were almost sentient; good company to have, somehow.

Two.

The white dragon gave a quiet, contented hum, and then twisted her forelimb around, letting the wisps trail along her scales. They didn't burn, really; there was a heat to them but it was not like 'real' flame.

Interesting.

Well, she'd managed two so far. A third, then, and she'd take flight, and try again.

Bone pressed her mind into the two existing wisps, struggling for a moment to control their movements: she was still learning how to do this, after all. They floated a little higher, a little farther, hovering out off the ledge; and then she looked again at her claws, turning them toward herself for a third time.

The third wisp burst into being fairly powerfully, with a crackle instead of a hiss, and--satisfied with her progress thus far--the white dragon sent it to hover with the first two.

And then she took flight: leaping from the ledge into the air, wings beating powerfully as she lifted herself heavily skyward.

Bone's body was a heavy one.

It was not really meant for flight--her siblng and father, even her mother, were sleek and graceful beings in the air. Bone's body was somewhat bulkier, perhaps more durable; but the result was that her flight required more concentration, and more muscle, to keep her aloft.

It would be good practice, then, to focus on both flying through Monoceros' winds and to summon up her wisps, all at once.

She slipped out into the room's breadth, the warm updrafts lightening the load, somewhat (and how did Svartis fly in Pisces-? She didn't know, it was so damn cold, there), and then concentrated on her floating wisps.

It took concentration, but another wisp joined the first three: this one smaller, perhaps weaker, a flickering little ghostly flare. But that was fine--this was practice, and it was useful to her.

Success, in any case. That was good. It was a step.

"Hello, wisps," Bone murmured to them aloud--and with a powerful beat of her wings, launched herself into faster flight, the wisps trailing to keep up.

It was time, then.

Bone first released her grasp on all the wisps, allowing them to fade to nothing: she'd need her full focus, for this.

She then swept down, with powerful beats of her heavy wings, dipping down into the Gorge with some difficulty (broad wings were a pain, when it came to the canyons). Once settled at the water's edge--a safe place, compared to some, to practice fire--she folded her wings at her side, and she concentrated.

The glittering sparkle of the river, its quiet gurgling, the warm breeze flowing through the ravine--it calmed her, some. The memory of agonizing burns was still fresh enough in her mind, but she found herself at peace enough to attempt it; the faint trepidation didn't really affect her overmuch. Perhaps it was just that fire was her native element. Burns were inevitable. What mattered was how one adapted.

And so here, at the water's edge, she inhaled--feeling the heat build within her chest... and then it faded.

Puzzled, the dragon exhaled. It was nothing but breath, and she wondered why.

Magic was a fickle thing, but had she not been playing with wisps, without problems, for several long minutes now-? Or had it tired her out? I don't feel tired, she thought.

Perhaps fire, she thought, had a mind of its own. Thus far she'd only tried to cast fire on nothing. Maybe it... maybe it wanted something to burn.

This strange thought sparked in her mind, she turned and looked downriver, and then up, for some flammable material.

Ahh-... a dead tree; that would do nicely. It hadn't fallen away, yet, tumbled into the waterway, but it held no foliage, either: an old, gnarled thing, leafless and dessicated.

Bone trudged along the shore on foot, claws raking gentle holes in the dusty earth, and came to a stop a few moments later several yards before the tree.

"If there is a spirit of fire, or a god of fire, or if fire's got its own mind: here you are. Show me now; I'll give you something to burn. I'm trying to understand you," she added, the strange sense of peace around the river making it seem just a little less insane to be talking to the invisible element of flame.

A cautious inhale, and this time there could be no mistake: a roiling, smoldering-coals heat ignited within her belly. Surprised, pleased, a little frightened, the white dragon opened her jaws and blew it forth: a blast of roaring, crackling flame that swept out to engulf the ancient tree.

When the breath faded, she paused, marvelling at the agony of her burning mouth, and at the beauty of the embers and fire crackling over the long-dead branches.

And then Bone turned, and stuck her face in the river to cool it, steam hissing up around her head.

Well.

It seemed that fire had a mind of its own.

Bone lifted her head from the river, the gentle, trickling rush of water replaced by the hot crackle of flames the moment her ears broke the surface.

She turned and watched the tree with interest, pondering the implications. So fire could... hear. Understand, even. Curious. She wondered if Svartis knew-? Surely ice would be the same, then? If the magic were respected, given to its chosen purpose, it would work; that was the dragon's conclusion.

Bone turned, and plodded upriver, around the burning tree--pausing to regard it as she passed. "I will practice, to get used to the burns--and to give you more to burn," she told the tree, or rather, the fire that now consumed it; "I'll spread you where I can, in return for your..." Service-? No, that wasn't right. That implied that she had subjugated an actual element, and she didn't want that. She respected it. "Help?" she hazarded, after hesitation. Cooperation; they'd mutually benefit, surely? She'd set things on fire that threatened her, or her family, and fire would get to burn them.

Suddenly, Bone understood how it was that Dread had such an easy relationship with flame. He burned things. He put it to use. He was of one mind with fire: they both existed to burn, to destroy, and he gave it ample outlet and in turn, it served him well.

Bone trudged onward, these thoughts swimming through her mind, until she at last came to a log at the river's edge. Time for further practice, then...

Another deep inhale, and again it came powerful and rushing hot, searing her jaws and throat as it poured forth to envelop the log. It was sharp, burning pain, but the embers sparking skyward betrayed its effectiveness nonetheless: moments later the log was a roaring bonfire, and Bone's face was again hurtling for the river, and its succor.

Bone settled herself to rest, for a time, peering curiously into the flames. Raptly, even.

They'd engulfed the wood so readily. Hungrily. There was an elegance to them, a nobility, almost, as these flames fulfilled their entire purpose. We should be so lucky, Bone thought, somewhat idly. To have a purpose so pure, so direct; to meet one's final goals so easily.

The big white dragon lay her jaw on her forepaws, and watched it for awhile longer.

Bone rested, for a time, before again lifting off; heavy beats of her wings took her back skyward.

She decided, then, to hunt, in the way that her father did; she usually killed her prey first with talons or jaws, but she had to admit that despite the agony of fire, Dread's kills were quick. She circled, long, slow banks around the Twister--keeping a safe distance between it and her. Dread's flight was agile, quick, and when he wanted it to be, quiet; hers was a slow bass-thumping endeavor that made it harder to approach the deer without spooking them.

It took her time, then, to actually find a herd--a few clustered near one edge of the Gorge. She knew that if she missed her shot, they'd go tumbling down the narrow pathways like mountain goats.

The white dragon gathered herself, then, wings folding in, inhaling a deep breath.

The deer scattered as she dove, her brief blast of flame breath nowhere near reaching them--a dud, really--and she banked back up and watched, dismayed, as they scattered.

Damn.

Bone decided then and there that she was likely to stick to physical hunting. Burning the deer alive might have been fast, and kind, for Dread--but something about it didn't sit right with her and she was almost glad she hadn't managed. He was efficient, practical; she was a little more... soft.

The white dragon banked, silently blessing the deer in their escape, and with thundrous wingbeats dipped down into the Gorge itself once more. This wasn't to chase the deer, but to go back to the still-burning wood of the dead tree.

She watched it for a moment, thinking, and then rocked back to sit on her haunches, wings folding along her back. One taloned forefoot lifted, and she craned back her head so that the fire, from her perspective, seemed to be framed within her claws.

To her surprise, a flick of her talons brought a flicker of fire, and she went still, for a moment. It wasn't a dramatic, sudden shift, but a small thing--and she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it, at first.

Fascinated, her imagination at once captured, she settled down to concentrate, and try and replicate the act.