hey guys! guess what! it's another aure magic solo!
this one's set right after airplane through the sky, greyhound racing by
When he awoke, it wasn't with a start. No, it was a natural stretch to lucidity. He'd rolled onto his back while he was asleep, one wing—the barely-singed one—draped across his chest and the other fully spread across the bare floor. If only someone'd walked in on the sight: the Bone King rising stiffly from his impromptu bedchambers, craning his neck as far as it would go to get that one crick! out.

Bleary eyes blinked a few times, and he snuffed his head against a shoulder to rub the gunk from their corners. Both ears pricked up to alertness, and he twisted to roll onto his stomach. Keeping the motion fluid, Aure launched himself to his feet with only a little stumble. His tail flicked—ah, should straighten that feather...—and he contorted himself to preen at it.

The trident-head lay in wait, mold just barely crawled past it. Neither metal or solid rock—or was this a wooden floor... ?—were the ideal substrate for it to grow, but by the Spire, it would. Whatever rust it was capable of taking off, it would have by now.

Aure reached, and found ease for once. It was a feeble little wisp, but bright. He could see it well if it, perchance, decided to shoot towards him again.

Aure paused before trying to make the next move, ears pricked back warily—"now," he began, as if to start a parental intervention. His head tilted with a disarming smile, "I know that you... might have had your spats, in the past. A vendetta against coming except when it's most dire." Every single word was still slurred with sleep, but let no one say that about the Bone King. He inhaled sharply, and exhaled, "it would be nice if you could, at least, go where I intend for you to—with fire, too."

It occurred to him, then, that it was a matter of intention. If this little bit of destruction wasn't something that he, himself, would do... how could he expect his magic to? No matter how much he assigned a personality to these lights, they couldn't be more than a manifestation of his abilities. Just an arcane light under his control, however focused he was on it. "Together?" he asked it, and lurched towards the trident's head.

His beak and talons were deliberately short of the scrap, wings more at the ready to flee than they were to lend any support to the wisp aiming true. Its existence at the edge of his conscience vanished, but the ghasty flame bore down on the mold with glee.

In the end, he did dance away. It was from necessity, of course—the burning mold was throwing dark clouds of metallic smoke and sparking embers, and either one were chafing against his lungs. Aure coughed into a wing and shook himself. Bright eyes glanced up, and he took note of the fact that... well, the room was filling with the foul stuff. There was barely any flame left to throw up so much.

To conclude: that's enough.

He flicked his wings out, urging a wind to sweep in from one side of the Tower to the other. No sooner than it started to buffet against his ruff did he press against the ground.

Like lifting a veil, the black haze over his vision cleared steadily. It thickened somewhat as he dispelled that wind, but visibility had been his initial goal. Aure straightened, regarding the smoldering pile of burnt mold. A precise enough blast of wind could smother it and chill whatever heat remained—so it wouldn't catch again. He inhaled and, once again, reached out in his mind's eye. If he fancied it enough...

... he'd be struck by a migraine. He winced, cringing away from the troublesome little object (and magic.) Light throbbed behind his eyes, and that determination to make something from this piece of scrap was waning by the second. Whatever was underneath that curling smoke must be worth the trouble.

Finding what transcendence meant for his magic must be worth the trouble.
sigh!

Surely, seeing a bunch of smoke rising from the peak of the Tower would be cause for concern? Where was Pride in a time like this?

Dramatics aside, Aure steeled himself—this was now a(n admittedly very silly) choice between fleeing this room or putting it out. The second option was the more viable of the two; the smoke congregated at the edges of the broad windows before spilling out, and were thickest there. Magic might clear a space wide enough for him to take off or drop from, but acting physically and magically had seemed impossible for cycles, now.

He sucked in air from down low, and braced himself to try something a little different—WOOSH!

The resulting blast of wind tumbled through the room, sweeping under—rather than over—the head. It ground against the stone with a characteristic shriek before pinwheeling out. What smoke was left had been swept out of the Tower and trailed after it. Aure breathed for just a moment before trotting to the window ledge and starting his own descent.

Short of breath as he was, it seemed right that he should chase it down.

So, down he went, with wind at his back and combing through his wings. He swept into freefall, exited, and snared the still-hot trident with his claws. Aure yelped (HOT!) and snapped his wings out. It could just hit the ground and cool off, then.

Hit the ground it did—and with a resounding first CLANG! no less. The soot-covered trident clattered about a few more times before it fell still. A few smoldering spots remained on it, even after the fall. Their gently flickering luminescence meant that they were due to go out soon, but the young King was somewhat impatient, antsy, et cetera after an evening of mishaps.

Aure made sure that he was grounded and braced for impact before calling upon his magic. It fizzled quickly and pathetically. He sniffled and sneezed softly.

Caves, he sighed wordlessly, it might do us both well to give this a break? By this, Aure meant the lackluster grasp of magic; this constant slip-and-slide of ability. At times, it felt as if he could conjure anything with nary a flick of his tail—others, hardly at all. It'd come to mind over and over. How could he act as a King if he couldn't stir a breeze at will?

Another sigh. The young King thought less forcefully to whatever was out there, let me do this for her, at least. His chest swelled to yield nothing, again.

"Please," Aure asked out loud, ears shifting back. His eyes were dull with weariness. "I'm doing everything right." There was no way magic could be so unruly—for every single instance of it's working to be merely a fluke. He shifted to face Orion at large for a moment. Pride came to mind for a passing moment. The pale stag had always been fairly knowledgeable about magic and its properties. There was no need for him to brag; his abilities showed off for him. Time and again, he'd shown his strength.

Yet—the hybrid considered, as he peered down at the trident—it was his own self. His chrysalis hadn't changed anything about him, and he was inclined to believe that perhaps Emuh hadn't either. All that'd shifted was his own... how did he put it to Damask? Potential?

Nothing again.

If there were more potential being added, though, why did he feel so...

... it was an unknown feeling to him.

Aure tried to stay confident and optimistic, but either were starting to run in short supply by now. Weeks of repeated failures, backfires, slippery claws and teeth weighed on him. It wasn't anything causing him to lose sleep, but it was nothing short of infuriating and disappointing. If the stag Astraea at last did call upon him and his Bonebound to fend off that golem in Ursa, what would he do? Risk endangerment?

"Can I have this?" he asked softly.

The wind blundered toward him at such a speed that it felt as if something'd been lobbed at him. A frustrated, strung-out growl escaped him.