Date: 64th of Ymiden
Weapons: None
Status:Pondering
Weapons: None
Armor: None
No Current Magical Effects
Prae ran his hands over Sivan’s saddle one last time, double checking straps and buckles, just in case. She huffed at him, and he laughed, gently petting her shoulder and scratching behind her head plate. “Easy, girl. We’ll be up in the air soon enough.”
Satisfied now that her saddle was on right, Prae climbed onto his mount, his tail curling around to pick up her reins.
It had been a while since he’d gone out riding with Sivan, just for them to acclimatize to each other, just for him to learn to ride a little better.
It had been a while since he’d trained in anything other than combat and magic.
Why, he wondered, his hand smoothing over green scales. Had it been the sparks driving him into a frenzy of use and training? Or had it been his own anxious mind, wanting to master in a matter of seasons anything that would tip the balance in a fight?
He wanted to blame his sparks. If that was it, then... it had all been simply inevitable, hadn’t it? He was always going to change, the only limitations being the endurance of his own body, and his own dicipline in training and perfecting his skills.
Except... that wasn’t true, was it? Both Marken and Edyn had room to improve in their magics, despite their copious ability. And yet neither tried—fates, Edyn actively tried not to push herself in defiance for fear of revealing—to push their own boundaries, to push their spark to grow.
So it wasn’t his sparks pushing to grow, and changing him in the process. It was him.
How bitterly ironic, that he was the one most reluctant to change, and yet he was the one among his friends who pushed most heavily for the growth that would lead to it.
Prae sighed heavily, and lifted his hand from Sivan’s back, raising it to his eye level. Curling one finger, he watched somberly as it ignited, a small flame burning merrily at the tip of his claw.
Fire was his kin now, too. He’d discovered that, or decided it, back in Bastards Grove. Same place he’d cemented his kinship with wind, and yet under such different circumstances.
Even then, he hadn’t been strong enough, fast enough. Near a dozen of his fellow mercenaries were dead, and Selyin would never use her sword arm again. The Hand was dissolved, his compatriots scattered.
And Praetorum was leaving. Not for some time, not until he set all his affairs back I order. But at some point soon.
The Hand has mattered to him. But Yaralon wasn’t a city he knew he could live in forever, and now with nothing holding him back, there was no reason for him not to go.
Well, he still hadn’t decided where to, but chances were, he was going to have to ride or fly there. Time he brushed up on his skills.
Satisfied now that her saddle was on right, Prae climbed onto his mount, his tail curling around to pick up her reins.
It had been a while since he’d gone out riding with Sivan, just for them to acclimatize to each other, just for him to learn to ride a little better.
It had been a while since he’d trained in anything other than combat and magic.
Why, he wondered, his hand smoothing over green scales. Had it been the sparks driving him into a frenzy of use and training? Or had it been his own anxious mind, wanting to master in a matter of seasons anything that would tip the balance in a fight?
He wanted to blame his sparks. If that was it, then... it had all been simply inevitable, hadn’t it? He was always going to change, the only limitations being the endurance of his own body, and his own dicipline in training and perfecting his skills.
Except... that wasn’t true, was it? Both Marken and Edyn had room to improve in their magics, despite their copious ability. And yet neither tried—fates, Edyn actively tried not to push herself in defiance for fear of revealing—to push their own boundaries, to push their spark to grow.
So it wasn’t his sparks pushing to grow, and changing him in the process. It was him.
How bitterly ironic, that he was the one most reluctant to change, and yet he was the one among his friends who pushed most heavily for the growth that would lead to it.
Prae sighed heavily, and lifted his hand from Sivan’s back, raising it to his eye level. Curling one finger, he watched somberly as it ignited, a small flame burning merrily at the tip of his claw.
Fire was his kin now, too. He’d discovered that, or decided it, back in Bastards Grove. Same place he’d cemented his kinship with wind, and yet under such different circumstances.
Even then, he hadn’t been strong enough, fast enough. Near a dozen of his fellow mercenaries were dead, and Selyin would never use her sword arm again. The Hand was dissolved, his compatriots scattered.
And Praetorum was leaving. Not for some time, not until he set all his affairs back I order. But at some point soon.
The Hand has mattered to him. But Yaralon wasn’t a city he knew he could live in forever, and now with nothing holding him back, there was no reason for him not to go.
Well, he still hadn’t decided where to, but chances were, he was going to have to ride or fly there. Time he brushed up on his skills.
