ORIGIN

Bone gently clasped her claws, then opened them, then--as if sweeping aside a curtain--turned her forefoot outward and curved it off to one side. All the while she focused on her magic, trying to use it to maneuver, to influence, the fire itself.

Again it seemed almost to move, to flow, with her touch, and her eyes widened a fraction at the confirmation of it. She felt... special. Touched, even. Her father breathed fire, but had he ever controlled it-? Moved it?

Had it ever responded to his touch, in such a way? She felt a bond with flames, then: a strange and supernatural thing, one she couldn't explain. It was as if the fire itself held a mind of its own, as if it were responding to her--and she felt a flush of excitement redden her wings at the realization.

Let it be itself. Let it feed, she thought, and looked around.

There was driftwood, here and there; and this fire, consuming this tree, was nearly out of fuel. Bone picked a dried log not too far off--she assumed that they were ancient, the remnants of the few gnarled trees that the Gorge supported, dotted along the riverside.

In any case, it was kindling.

This one was some thirty feet downriver--a long distance, and she wasn't sure she could manage it. But she murmured to the flames, under her breath: "Let me move you. Trust me. I'm bringing you to more fuel." And then, concentrating her magicka at the forefront of her mind, she stared into the middle space--keeping both hunks of deadwood in her vision--and gently tipped her claws from the burning tree toward the log, willing the fire to move from one to the other.

To consume.

Yes! she thought, suddenly exultant: for there it was, the flame a ball without fuel, coiling and crackling in nothing but thin air as she maneuvered it.

She felt triumph, then, as the new piece of driftwood gave it strength, the flame taking root there and roaring up afresh. Triumph, and kinship, joy: the flame was her; she was the flame. They were one, and they would aid each other.

The white dragon let out a short roar of triumph: a happy cry, and a flap of her wings to boot.

Bone heard the flap of wings a tad too late.

She turned to peer upward, blinking--and then a massive snowball hurtled down into her, exploding her world into cold frost and blinding white, smothering, knocking her down with sprawled wings.

"PHLEGH-" she spat, shaking herself and pulling herself up, having been jarred from "meditative wonder" to "indignant shock" in seconds. Spines trembled as she shoved back, leaping up and out of the pile of snow that had engulfed her, and she stared up at her asshole brother.

"SVARTIS!" she bellowed; "What the HELL!" There was, of course, the faintest touch of humor in it--it was anger but half for the sake of... effect. It wouldn't be funny if she wasn't mad.

Pale claws scooped at the snow and chucked loose ice ineffectually a few yards into the air. "I was doing MAGIC!" she protested.

Bone scoffed, spitting out snow.

"I was busy," she retorted, "learning how to use fire properly. AND I did," she added; "so excuse me if I wasn't looking out for my idiot brother about to drop a ton of snow on my head." This was said dourly, though that faint amusement still lingered.

She nodded to the flames. "It works if you give it something to burn. It... responds to me. Look," she added, a quick glance vaguely at Svartis' feet giving her an idea. There was a bit of wood there... not a lot but perhaps enough to scare the crap out of him.

The flame--initially at the log on the shore--jumped spectacularly, a hurtling fireball that seemed to launch itself straight for Svartis--though at the last second it curved down, impacting the wood close by him and igniting it with a rush.

Take that for a practical joke, dick, Bone thought, with a grin.

Oh, he was threatening her now-? And SNOW! She snorted, and launched back, struggling to take slow wing. Every wingbeat was a heavy thump--her brother was far more agile than she was, in the air, but it ws the premise of the thing. If you were going to be a dragon, fighting another dragon, doing it sitting on the ground was... stupid.

"OH NO you don't!" she protested, her voice a roar, as she took flight. She got about into a hover, still quite close by, whilst calling on her magic.

She wasn't really sure what she was about to do with it. Fire hurt, and she didn't actually want to hurt Svartis.

Bone tried to summon up another wisp, to send it buzzing around her brother's face--a distraction, and... blinding, she hoped, but not harmful. She wouldn't let it hit his eyes, or anything. "Something to AIM at, huh!? How are you gonna aim with a wisp in your face?!"

Bone watched, half-incredulously, as her brother engaged in mortal combat with her wisp. Faint, half-amused outrage struck her--and just a little actual pain; her wisps were like little pets to her. Granted, she probably shouldn't have sent this one buzzing at Svartis' face if she didn't want it dead, but still! "HEY!" she cried, as the little phosphorescent flame was wiped out by the frosty sleet-breath; "Pick on somebody your own size!" She was going to blow fire over his head, but then she remembered the whole "set something on fire, actually" rule, and decided to aim just beneath him, instead. At her angle it'd be scary enough: a gout of flame, if she managed, coursing down at an angle to engulf some of the few dead wood pieces remaining along the bank.

It wouldn't miss Svartis completely, though, no; it was blistering heat and blinding light, and she hoped it'd force him back.

Regardless of what happened with him, she immediately realized the error of her ways. Her flippancy was rewarded almost at once by the searing pain of burning flesh, her mouth again igniting itself. Lucky, then, that she'd chosen to practice here--but the result of this was Bone suddenly diving for the river, flames engulfing much of her face as she dove in. Her flailing, heavy white body erupted again a moment later, wings flapping loosely at the surface. "HELL!" she cried, though she didn't seem too badly hurt.