lil solo

Waiting for Cain to come by. Waiting for summons to Vargas's meeting. Waiting for Dhracia. Waiting for the little scout. All she could do was wait.

In the meantime, she could at least keep practicing, keep going at it, keep getting stronger. She was significantly weaker than she'd remembered, and although she was getting better every day, His magic was still failing her when she needed it most.

Off the Hand went to the little spot in Cepheus where she practiced-- beyond the river, but close enough to the palace to call for help if she'd needed it. Here, the trees were corrupt from the last time she'd been here; there was a fissure engraved deep into the ground (and a smaller one next to it, from Pollen's whip).

A breath was taken, but Aethril did not tarry very long.

It felt good. It felt good when the ground underneath her feet rolled out, from green to black. The grass turned slick and wet as it was corrupted, as the corruption left Aethril's body and spread out around her like a yawning stretch.

Good start. Better than usual. With confidence she slid back a few paces and edged around it, eyes scanning her environment carefully. There'd been a tree-- corrupt, of course --with the bark split open from a lightning strike. Ugly, misplaced. She might as well try to get rid of it and clean the place up a little.

Her magic flickered briefly-- weaker this time, but still responding. A roar of thunder cracked through the small grove and punched itself into the tree bark-- burning it, leaving a slightly deeper crack in between it, but not taking it out to the extent that Aethril would have liked.

Something else, perhaps? No. Her favourite spells were the most brutal ones; fire and lightning. If she lost the ability to deal sufficient damage with those two spells, then she was dead, floating in the water. Her shoulders rolled back and her hands shook out for a moment.

Just a bit more, the Hand quietly urged herself.

Weaker still, but the combined force of both lighting cracks had the tree splitting in half. Fingers of violet-black lightning lurched as if from nowhere and struck the wood, scorching the corners and sending the dead tree trunks smashing to the ground with a hollow thump joining the cry of thunder.

One step forward. And then another. Aethril inspected her work carefully.

It'd left behind a bit of a stump; but all Aethril saw in this was a place for passersby to sit, if they were so inclined to sit on a corrupted tree stump. It was no skin off her back-- she just had to get rid of the rest of the debris.

The fire was all too happy to lurch from her fingertips and onto one half of the split tree; excitedly but greedily consuming the wood in its wake and billowing out thick, black smoke to launch into the air of Cepheus. The faint taste of ash on Aethril's tongue was satisfying to her, like the memory of a time long gone by.

But there was still another half to tend to. She didn't quite have the time to savour it, after all-- she wanted to get her energy back up and cast as much as she physically could before reaching exhaustion and having to head back.

Her fingers waggled briefly again and air filled her lungs in a sharp breath as she took a single beat to prepare.

This slough of flames was weaker, too, but His unstable magic still got the job done. The cold flames latched onto the dry, dead wood and ate away at it piece by piece alongside its twin half.

The smoke was thick, now. A few quick steps back had Aethril breathing a little more clearly, but she wasn't done yet. She still had more left in her to push herself to the very edge and tire herself out. Sweat ran down the back of her neck as pale eyes scanned the grove again, searching hungrily for something else to destroy.

Wait. Control. Keep control of yourself.

A rush of non-elemental magic and her mind was resetting itself. Gaining control again. It hadn't been one of the more significant slips but it was still in the best interest of everyone if Aethril kept her little tantrums to an absolute minimum.

Another breath. It felt laboured. Her lungs burned. She was too hot, she realised.

Her bare feet shifted against grass, half-turning to the source of the heat: the fires burning away, churning out plume after plume of smoke. Another rush of magic and--

"Fuck!" the Hand cried, half-doubling over. The spell had taken what little air was in her lungs and left her winded and breathing in smoke. She coughed violently-- her throat felt delicate enough as it was --and turned towards cleaner air.

Shit. Be more careful.

One more. Just one more. She wouldn't leave this session letting her last spell be a failure. The second the Hand regained her breath she was straightening up, face slick with sweat and brow furrowing, and trying to focus.

Don't fuck it up. Don't fuck it up.

She had not fucked it up.

A billowing slough of flames left her and latched onto the already-burning logs, screaming as it arced through the air. It left the grass underneath its path singed and gently-smoldering, and as an explosion of wood sprayed across the grass, Aethril felt a hint of satisfaction.

But it wasn't enough.

Another screaming ball of fire left her and hit the adjacent log. Another neat arc of bits of wood and debris fell around her and then, finally, in that moment of smoke in her lungs and ash on her tongue, sweating in the heat and gasping frantically for breath, she was finished.

She stood for a moment, until another hacking cough had her heading back to Cepheus's palace for a well-deserved bath.

exit