rust. (private; esi) (seth // talent training)

Cresting over the horizon, the sun rallies high, flourishing its ever-aggressive beams of nurturing, burning light over the reflective, moon-like surface of a snow-covered field. The snow’s pale disposition shirks ever slightly -- tips of delicate crystalline structures recede and meld together -- but it nonetheless reciprocates a blinding light back into the sky, reminding the aether of its quiet, burning presence.

Soft, plastic clunks reverberate from a long-forgotten but lovingly-built wind chime, hanging from a poorly constructed pillar of earth, casting its lonely song over the vast expanses of the hilly plain it resides on. The powder-snow -- now more melted, icy -- sleeps undisturbed. Not footprints. No movement. Peaceful. The determined snow only gratifying the sky’s embrace, with its vivid, flying colors of dawn, all contained within the nicer winter weather, calm winds and a sky now devoid from the familiarity of blanketing greys.

Four wings beat against the still, winter air, offset and off-pulse, westwards from the sprawling expanse of civilization, closer to familiar lands. Snaking highways, roads, and railways eventually dissipate into obscurity as the pair head toward a familiar location, frozen into their memory. Snowy dove wings steadily thrust against the sky, guiding Chan Hee with the vagueness of muscle memory into the wilderness disguised by winter.

Within the troughs of idle chit-chat and vaguely friendly conversation, the taller, lighter member of the pair speaks up: "And you’re sure we’re going the right way," he asks his self-contained companion. "Esialeth. Hello? Are you listening to me? The heating rune I bought only has so much time. Are we there yet? Or at least getting close..?" He’s faster than Esialeth -- almost scarily so -- actually, so much so that he’s actively going at a slower than usual pace to match her. He momentarily wonders how she even flies without hollow bones… Or something of the like. She must be good at dieting.

Nonetheless, the constantly turning water wheel of time continues on, and a few long minutes later they arrive at their destination. His winter white wings steady, and stretch out to their full width. Feather tips displace the surrounding air, causing thin contrails to momentarily appear in his wake before disappearing back into the atmosphere. He creates a twirling pattern in his descent, lengthening his fall and slowing his speed to where landing on the ground becomes a soft crunch of the snow beneath him. Formerly mostly undisturbed, the collapsing of his wings against his back whispers a deadly zephyr across the down of white.

He looks up and waves his hand as Esialeth, excited for her descent. "It looks so different in the winter," his lips curl into a smile but actively detract from any air of happiness. Reminiscence, perhaps. "Are you ready to... You know," he pauses, with a face full of apprehension, "Nevermind. Let’s just begin. I already agreed to this, I shouldn’t back out so easily," he breathes in slowly, "Let’s begin."

Despite his agility and strength, Seth has a penchant to… Deteriorate quickly. Earlier, he and Esialeth decided to go somewhere private to train (spar exclusively, actually). Unknowing of how Esialeth fights (physically, at least), he grips nervously at the edges of his sleeves. Suspecting that whatever transpires next will likely escalate literally (and figuratively) into aerial combat, he hopes that his many, many years of flying and flight training will trump Esialeth and her recently acquired wings. Keeping that in mind, he backs away, assuming she will, as well, to create an adequate “arena” sized space in between them. He isn’t too worried about any injuries either, being a magical anthropomorphic woodland creature has some perks: healing hands, for example. Otherwise, the circumstances are ideal for him. Water aplenty. About two or three inches of the white stuff underneath him and an open sky. Esialeth’s attacks are volatile and he’s glassy in his defenses. A dilemma, if we wasn’t as light on his feet as he is: a faint hope that we won’t get caught in any form of attack.

The outstretches his left hand, and a newfound light -- perhaps his true talent, completely separate and devastatingly different from his learned Luna -- manifests in a spark, glittering in the center of his palm. "Niðgeisl..." he folds his fingers, forcing it to leak through the gaps on his fingers, pure silver light materializing and dripping onto the ground, like mercury from a crushed termostat. Without the poison. Or metal, necessarily, either. It forms a small depression in the snow-covered floor, the liquid spreading and forming a small seal, with the motif of a moon. After a split second, the rune flashes once and projects a beam of light seven feet into the air, where it flashes to the beat of Seth’s heart, light gathering and condensing, collapsing the beam of light into a pole made completely out of pearl. He reaches out, gripping, brushing his fingers against the intricate grooves of the stave. Less than a second passes before his hand finds its place. Instinctive. Natural and familiar. If he had any clue how on how to joust, anyways. He raises the pole above his head, striking a rather heroic pose, with the topmost edge reciprocating, pulsating and forming a star-shaped blade.

He unfurls his wings and launches himself into the air, and out of immediate danger -- the ground. Despite his showy summon, he has no clue how to use a lance, much less the magical capabilities of his weapon is. He falls back to what he’s more used to. Closing his eyes, briefly, he focuses his mana, and with a glint of his forehead gemstone, he uses his stave as a conduit for his more practiced talent. The openings within the star-shaped fill with a soapy-film. He ascends at extreme speed. He beats his wings then relaxes them, twirling onto his back, he plummets back towards the ground, his stave outstretched, the sharpened tip caressing the ground. The snow melts into a clear flow of water, following Seth as he uses his remaining momentum to return back into the sky. While flying in small loops, his gathered water orbits him in planetary-ring like fashion.

He’s never one to initiate the first attack. He waits for Esialeth’s next move. (1050)