ORIGIN

It'd been about a week since the sickness had cleared up, but Aethril was still wary. After evaluating her own actions and attack on Purity (of whom she was still certain was dead) she made a point, to herself, of two things: the first to keep her cool, and the second to just keep practicing until she found her feet again.

The last week had been spent kept mostly to the confines of the Palace. Easy enough, with the company and entertainment. If she wasn't inside hauling Obieth or Eggbert to the theatre, she was having lunches with Isra or pacing along the courtyard gardens to get fresh (relatively fresh, for what you could find in the caves) air.

It was around now she'd decided it was time to get back at it.

First up was a spell to give her her energy-- largely unneeded, but its success brought some much-needed encouragement to her. She felt better, more ready, refreshed. This was followed by dressing in usual Magic-Practicing Attire: a loose shirt and quarter-length pants, topped with a ponytail. She was soon passing the barrier and saying goodbye to Eggbert as she passed him by the entrance.

Normally, Aethril would have preferred to go to Pegasus. There was a certain wisdom in the phrase 'don't shit where you eat,' or in more accurate terms, 'don't corrupt where you sleep.' There was greater wisdom, however, in not pissing off to another room entirely in case you plague yourself again.

With this, the Hand was trekking out to one of the further sides to Cepheus, passing a creek and the great hill to an unlit grotto by the Eastern end. She paused, here, took a look around, and slowly stretched her arms out above her head.

Time to practice.

She stretched, and she stretched, and then she was ready, shaking out her hands and hyping herself up a little, in her own head. What would she practice first? Fire and lightning were always good to practice-- the former had even saved her life, at the expense of burnt hands that lasted a few days.

With an exhale, Aethril cracked her fingers and noticed something peering out the shrubs.

It might have been a good ruse, she supposed, if Pollen had done more than just plant some ivy and honeysuckle on herself. Someone with a better nose would have noticed the immediate, misplaced scent. Aethril's eye was rather drawn to the shape of star-like leaves against almond-shaped.

Her muscles unknotted and her arms went slack for a moment. It was nice to know that this one cared enough to follow her out here, but something at the back of her mind told her that other Hands might not appreciate it too much. Hell, Aethril wouldn't appreciate it if she were going somewhere to meet someone in private.

Either way-- Aethril knew what she was practicing first.

Manipulation of one's mind wasn't something that ever quite came naturally to her. Aethril was rather one for seeing results, and quite often she preferred spells where she could directly see how she was affecting someone. She could, however, quite see how spells like this were useful, however.

A little ping of corruption soared across her into the back of Pollen's head, with one simple command bearing down on her head. Get out of there.

Aethril's head was inclining forward. Pollen obviously hadn't meant any ill will by it; and it was, perhaps, almost sweet. "You should ask before following people out," she told the Amber regardless. "Some might be furious if they found you sneaking around after them."

She turned and she was focusing again, wrists rolling. "I'm practicing magic," Aethril went on. Her fingers twisted and her brow furrowed but His magic wasn't responding to her-- which was marginally better than it attacking her, but frustrating nontheless.

At least Pollen wouldn't have noticed.

With a huff, her head was turning back. "I want to make sure I don't get sick ever again," came the partial admission. "I have Obieth, of course, but I'd still like to hold my own if I get into another fight, and I can't have my magic backfiring back into me, now, can I?"

The grass fluttering in a faint breeze caught her idle mind and she was sighing again, thoughtful. The idea of the rebellion worried her; the idea that a corrupted cat chewing away at plants brought the sense of concern that it might be starting up all over again, and this was just the start of it made her sick to her stomach.

Unfocused eyes darted back to Pollen before hardening again. "Besides," she went on with a grin. "We can't stay cooped up in the Palace all day. Don't you have anything you want to practice?"

A bad day. Aethril snorted briefly with good-natured laughter, shaking her head. It had been a bad day-- she'd lost control and made a fool of herself. She let the corruption seep into her mind and make her stupid. Pollen, as innocent of a response it was, held some gentle wisdom.

"Magic always comes easier when you're in a good mood," the Hand told Pollen with an idle smile. "Loosen yourself up and relax."

She'd have to follow her own advice, she realised. She rolled her shoulders back and she did her best to loosen up; but when she lifted a hand to call her magic, nothing came to her.

"Well,"" she said. "In theory, it's easier when you're in a better mood." She spun and she sat down by the trunk of a half-withered tree, leaking crisp, black-brown leaves from its branches. Her legs crossed in front of her and she watched Pollen.

A hand waved, encouragingly. "Give it a try."

The thought didn't quite count when it was a life or death situation, Aethril thought, but she supposed it was fair enough. Her head turned to follow Pollen touch the tree, and watched the very still tree. Her brow furrowed.

Aethril had never quite heard of someone... asking, their magic, no matter how politely, to work. Her gaze snapped to the branches, then to Pollen, then to the very bark of the tree. "It's more likely because it's too big," she said. "You could try moving something smaller. You could try moving a branch on one of the bushes."

But she was gently curious, and her hand extended. "... please move," she asked of it, almost begrudgingly. Maybe it was the intensity of her focus in speaking, or maybe it was because she was calmer, but her magic caught the very roots of the tree and crawled upwards like an infection, consuming pale brown bark with slick black oil.

It shifted and it creaked painfully, like old bones rattling. Two branches bent and then twisted around each other, weaving a sort of braid shape together.

The Hand was thoughtful. "Well, it might help," she offered. "Or it might be coincidence."