She was out here again.

It was quiet; there was no bustling of Lessers around the Palace, and the air was fresh-- it wasn't tainted with the smell of cooking meat and spices from Nedies' kitchen. She left without Obieth; letting the Valkhound adjust to the Palace and its staff in peace, under Isra's eye.

Her feet were in the grass and a breeze blew through the loose dress shirt draped over her shoulders, and without her hair bunched up around her neck, she could feel the comfortable, cool air whip right around it. It was peaceful, quiet, serene.

Time to fuck it up.

His magic was getting increasingly familiar to her. It was less a feeling of nostalgia, now, and more practiced movements; sickening lightning crackled at her fingers and there was a flare-up of magic-- but something went wrong.

Violet-black lightning thundered up her forearms and the muscled spasmed and squeezed painfully. Aethril cried out, wrenching her hands back like whipping her fingers away from a flame but the pain continued; thrumming underneath her skin.

Frustration caught her like fangs gripping her throat; her brow furrowed and she whipped around violently. The breeze, comforting mere seconds ago, felt more like it was threatening to scalp her skin off the bone. "Fuck me," the Hand swore through her teeth, fingers lurching.

She needed to get rid of the pain, and with her mind in hysterics, she recoiled and tapped back into His magic. It spluttered like an old machine, dark sparks flickering out of her fingertips, before a roaring gout of flames spewed out of her palms.

There was a twisted sense of relief; her locked-up muscles soothened instantly as starving, black flames spilled out of her body and latched onto the grass, consuming and destroying everything in its path and spreading to scorch the very cave floor contentedly.

Aethril stepped back from it before her clothes caught aflame with a heavy sigh, her wrists flexing as she gained regular feeling back in her arms again. Thick, billowing smoke plumed out of the roaring fire like tulips licking the air, letting loose the stench of ash.

Another few steps backwards and she was sighing quietly, watching the smoke lift to the ceiling.

Aethril was breathing very hard, but as the pain burned away from her muscles and faded into a duller ache, she began to catch her breath again. The air felt too cold for her lungs but she gulped it down anyway, her head tilting back to stare at the smoke pooling on the cave ceiling.

Try again, she urged herself, and after shaking out her limbs again, the Hand moved away from the burning fire and flexed out her fingers again. She just had to concentrate. She knew she could do this.

She could feel it again; the crackle of lightning at her very fingertips, and this time it didn't inject itself backwards into her muscles. Forks of cruel, purple lightning lurched forward like a predator, clinging to the ground and surrounding flora and scorching them black and corrupted.

It felt good. Like the flames. It was a relief to hear echoing, clapping thunder in her ears and the zap of electricity. The air itself felt static and she knew if her hair weren't tied up behind her, it'd be frizzing and spilling all over her shoulders.

There was a sense of euphoria as her hands went to her sides, watching the ground spark in one place and burn away to blackened ash in another.

Abruptly, the air smells like smoke.

Tsetse looks up from where he's been stalking a bug across the forest floor for the last couple of minutes—having wondered if insects were as susceptible to his tainted virus as anything else—reminded, quite sharply, of Hjalmar. His cold fire was unmistakable; lapping at limb and scale, his sibling shedding perpetually.

Has his brother wandered into the area? He has not interacted with his siblings for quite some time; he misses them. It's a kind of subtle ache that goes unnoticed, usually, but at the smell of that familiar foul smoke it feels like a hole has opened up next to his heart.

He should find Elayne again, some day. Another note to add to the list of his ever-growing plans.

But the one he comes across in the clearing is not Hjalmar at all—although those flames are quite familiar. Another Valkhound, then? Hm.

Whoever—whatever—she is, she is... powerful. Like the one he hunted with in Ursa a while ago; lightning lances through the air, killing what is left of the grass. A certain kind of excited satisfaction rolls through his chest; ah, true chaos. True destruction. There is something simply satisfying in tearing and burning without thought, without any purpose other than simply causing ruin. Something Tsetse himself has not indulged in for a while... cannot indulge in to the same extent as his siblings, his corrupted magic owing to something more subtle.

Perhaps if he had grasp of fire, of lightning, he would join in gleefully on the destruction. For now, he simply walks himself a circle in the charred, dead grass and lays down to watch.

@Aethril

Pale eyes darted across to the new Valkhound and Aethril distinctly hesitated. Was this one another of Farina's or was it Vargas's, this time? There were certainly plenty of them roaming around, it seemed, but very little seemed to have much... direction.

As long as they're not murdering innocent workers, she thought spitefully. This one seemed peaceful, too. It nestled in the grass and didn't speak; it seemed content enough to just watch the Hand at work.

Her wrist twisted. His magic came to her more faintly this time-- but she could still feel it, harvest it, conjure it into the very dirt. The ground a foot or two away from the Valkhound split and a tendril of deep-black, nearly beautifully iridescent oil slowly rose like the stem of a flower, up and up and up.

Keeping the tentacle slow, purposefully, was painful. A line of her muscle, from forearm to shoulder, ached away as it lifted. The tendril came to a stop, hooked over, and the very tip moved to pat the Valkhorse's head a few times.

Aethril didn't speak. The tendril was withdrawn and she went back to quietly focusing.

@Tsetse

Was it still there?

As more destructive instincts flooded Aethril's peripheral she forgot entirely about her new audience. It had been so silent, after all-- unresponsive but watching. In Aethril's mind it mattered very little. She had things to do, of course.

Another ear-shattering crack of thunder and more of the soft grass of Pegasus burned away with a flash of violet-white lightning, piercing several feet into the ground. The smoke burned the Valkhand's sinuses and there was a twisted sense of relief in it all.

This little area on top of this little hill had been wrecked; smoke churned its way into the air and ash fell through like dark snow. Aethril ruffled at her hair and turned to head back down the hill and out of one of the following tunnels back to Cepheus.

It was only when she was halfway through a bath, some hours later, that she wondered what the horselike Valkhound was doing back in Pegasus.

Then, it was dismissed for more important matters. Someone would have to read to Eggbert before bedtime, after all.

exit aethril