She was barefoot; in a loose shirt and rolled-up pants. Practicing magic in a dress and high heels was often ill-advised, especially when it'd been some five thousand years since she'd done any significant magic. It was comfortable enough. Pegasus was often warm enough that it wasn't usually muddy.

The grass was soft when she stepped out into the open meadow, dry and firm underneath her. Her fingers flexed, before she reached back behind her to tie her hair right back into a ponytail. She didn't have a plan for the time being-- only to cast magic until she couldn't anymore.

Aethril knew she was capable of it, at least. Her attempts to corrupt a plant had gone quite well, but she could tell that she was weakened significantly-- and she couldn't spar Isra or any of Vargas's creations until she got herself back up to speed.

With a breath, her hands reached out. His magic was always close; she grasped it and before she knew it, flooding out of her fingertips, was sickening, black-violet lightning. It cracked like a whip, reverberating into Pegasus's ceiling, as it thundered into the meadow ground.

It left a scar; black and burning and smoking, hungrily eating away at the grass and flowers that surrounded it. With the damage came a spasming, cramping sensation up Aethril's forearm and with gritted teeth she clenched her hands and shook them out.

There was no real sense of pride in it; only the calculations-- she was getting better, certainly, but it'd still take time to catch up again. At least this was progress, for now.

Aethril took a breath and cranked one arm backwards, shoulder arcing in a half-circle. She was about to start casting again when a figure in the distance caught her attention and she paused, letting the breeze whip hair from her face as she studied it.

It moved, and the Hand tensed briefly. Before she could process the greeting it offered it was moving and a oily tendril lurched from the ground. She recoiled, teeth gritting-- this was bad timing for her to get attacked right now; without Obieth, without Isra, without proper collection of her own magic.

She tried it anyway. Something-- anything --to protect herself, but the magic flickered and died at her very fingertips. Aethril winced, pulled back, and paused.

"Oh," she whispered. The tendril wasn't moving; curled towards her like a hand. Aethril reached out and, carefully, shook it. "You are, perhaps, one of the more polite ones I've met." She hadn't shook anyone's hand in a very long time-- even before hibernation.

"Who made you?" Aethril asked, gaze flicking across to Elayne. "You don't seem like one of Vargas's."

Farina, of course. Her and Artio often had the most beautiful creations and Farina obviously hadn't held out with this one. Her smile turned a little wistful as she let go of the tentacle and shook the oil from her palm.

This one, admittedly, might have been her favourite alongside Obieth's dark simplicity. Aethril was turning away with a breath, half-considering Elayne's question as her wrists twisted and focused. "I'm not fond of them," she said-- and this much she wouldn't needed wheedled out of her.

But what Elayne did get was, "the rebellion kept me trapped in the Palace for thousands of years." Her hands lurched and bouts of deep black flame bellowed from her palms, licking up her wrists. Aethril's teeth grit upon the pain but she aimed the roaring fire into the scorched ground.

The flames latched onto the dry grass like a moth to flame, burning into the skies and leaving whatever ground the lightning hadn't touched black and corrupted. "There's worse places to be trapped, of course," the Hand continued, shaking blackened ash from her aching hands. "But not being able to do anything while good creations die weighs on the mind."

Still wafting her hands in the air, she glanced back to Elayne. "Have you seen any, recently?"

The Hand wasn't very surprised to hear that the others had been unhelpful or ignorant-- from what Isra said, most of them were new, and others (like Aethril herself) had only just awoken from hibernation.

The name Jupiter stabbed at her heart a little, however. She liked her and it was a shame what she became-- another rebel in the crowd. "Many of us have been asleep," she told Elayne, in case this was news to her. "Others are too young to know of the rebellion."

For a moment, Aethril side-eyed Elayne next to her with furrowed brows. Tamulus had little meaning to her other than a creator-- but Nemean was news to her. "Nemean is a rebel?" She asked the Valkhound straight up, but she couldn't see it.

She could see Farina tiring of Nemean's.... Nemeanness.

A little sigh loosened the muscles in her face again, and she half-turned to face Elayne, politely. "My name is Aethril," she returned. "I'm a Hand."

It was a title she carried quite proudly, but her preening was shortly interrupted as her mind cast back on the rebellion. "I hope so," admitted Aethril. "Isra says the rebellion is over, but I can't shake the feeling that they're still out there, biding their time."

Her nose wrinkled, briefly. "Jupiter is a good hunter, but I haven't seen her in years. If you do find out where she is, I'd like to come with you to hunt her down, however."

Aethril blinked gently. Was Nemean somehow responsible for falling asleep? How did she manage it? "Did Farina have proof of Nemean's betrayal?" the Hand asked-- not in a particularly demanding or accusing tone, but one of genuine curiosity. "I trust your word, of course, but Nemean has been known to have.. her own priorities."

Now that she said it out loud, it sounded more suspicious.

She listened to Elayne quietly as she turned to continue practicising; corrupted magic left her and sept into the ground, slithering into the roots and infecting one of the plants. Ferns turned black and lifted weakly, weighed down by the oil that was gathering on the stem and leaves and dripping onto the rest of the grass.

As Aethril twisted one wide fern backwards to guide where the oil was dripping, she said, "there are plenty of brutes out there. Scholars are few and far between and there aren't as many Valkhounds around as there used to be." Even with Vargas making more, there didn't seem to be many around.

Though, she did seem to attract them. "It'd be best to focus on one Master at a time-- and I'd suggest Jupiter," Aethril went on. "I plan on having a little scholar made myself; something small and flexible to fit into tiny spaces and find whatever we need."

Another leaf moved; growing larger and stretching itself out as it rose above the others under her command. She considered in the meantime, thinking, drawing plans up in her head. "We just need to find Jupiter's den. We can send the creation in to scour rooms, when it's ready. Do you have any idea where it might be?"