WILD MAGIC.

❛ CREATURE OF 𝑬𝑿𝑸𝑼𝑰𝑺𝑰𝑻𝑬 𝑯𝑼𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑹 ; & 𝑃𝑂𝐼𝐺𝑁𝐴𝑁𝑇 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑅𝑆𝑇―

✶𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈 - an independent, mutuals only and very private writing blog for 𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐮𝐫'𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐈𝐈𝐈. strongly influenced by personal headcanons and affiliates. as told by killi; est 2020. this blog contains mature and dark themes; use discretion when following.

a statement clearly contradicted by the shortsword in her other hand, hilt and blade both distinctively different than the one she's been swinging about all this time — one needn't need to dip the surface thoughts to know it was another snarky opportunity rather than any sentiment of truth.

"it's rather chatty, if you must know." said sword flips, blade flat against Mair's forearm and half the hilt now empty as she extends it to the other woman. one, she has a sword of her own that she's rather familiar with, and partial to, and two, chatty, cursed items were probably better handled by people who made a point of studying magic, not stumbling face-first into it by some quirk of existence.

❝       of course it is.       ❞

with a sigh, alara accepts it like those stories of knights grasping the hilt of a fated sword to draw it from the heart of stone, or knotted whorls of an ancient tree, albeit less majestically & far more aware of the annoying burden that it bestowed. it's lighter than she might've guessed, & fits in her grip like it was made for her.

closing her eyes, she tentatively searches for a chord or tether to connect to; it finds her, slithering through her magic with startling ease, like a host navigating the chaos of their own party.

well, now, what have we here ?

it isn't until she hears the oil-slick impression in her mind that she realises just how little peace she'll now have.

HE'D EXPECTED HER TO RETALIATE but had underestimated how petty she could be. He didn't even know she could do that. In fact, if someone had suggested it, he would've sooner placed money on her turning them all into ladybugs or some similar nonsense instead. An uncharitable assessment on his part, but there it was. He guessed spite stood behind her success now. He almost had to respect it. Almost.

❝You must be used to people calling you vapid, but don't you think you're taking it too literally?❞ He fanned the silver-blue cloud to hurry her through the cracks. If she expected him to plead not to be left behind, she was mistaken.

Though that did raise the question of what he ought to do instead. He could go back for Gale, but he could not now consider that the ideal option. Surely a cloud would be safe from attack, but how long could she hold that form? What would happen if the accursed found her wandering alone? He wouldn't blame himself for what he considered a tantrum of hers, but neither would he be at ease if she got hurt while he stood mere feet away.

the smoke hisses in answer & twists, slowly & somewhat unsuccessfully, away from his attempts to usher it through. she'll not be rushed, & certainly not by the likes of him.

rather, she lashes, lunges for him, saltwater smoke reaching out, a hand toward his face – though, she may as well be moving through the distance like a gelatinous cube from the latest volume they'd found of the true & impossible adventures of tenebrux morrow. still, perhaps he won't immediately realise what she's doing, & will cough & sputter for it.

much as she'd much rather rail against an opponent she can handle, it's the unnatural darkness they'll have to deal with to find a way to the city. without finding passage through it, they'll never escape. & right now, that's up to her.

she should've turned him into the cloud.

alara hesitates, hangs in the cold air for half a heartbeat, gathering her resolve & the coils of herself to creep into the crevice, moving only marginally faster than before he'd tried to fan her inside.

.....

all that for nothing.

they could blow the place to smithereens–

just as she has the thought, a portable pocket of the same silver glow around the last light inn crests the bend in the road & bobs toward them, tedious & uneven. a welcome sight for the few seconds it takes her memory to recall that none of the harpers have discovered how to delve this far, & are limited to the barest shimmer on their skin...

which means whoever lumbers with that light must be a cultist.

not long after disappearing, she re-emerges with far more urgency, flowing toward will with the force of all her insubstantial body weight. insistent, she continues to ram him – or at him – with all the effectiveness of a puff of air, & hopes he'll understand without her needing to solidify once more.