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He had toyed with the idea. It had been a whisper in the back of his mind for a little while— since the bright green, accusing eyes of Alysanne had told him he couldn’t afford to lose control. That he wasn’t allowed a moment of weakness. That he must always act like a King. Regency was relatively new to the Elephant. He had led soldiers— but there was no decorum there. You simply trained, planned, and tried to not get them killed. Beyond that, he was his own man (free to plot and devise the fall of an Empire). But, with Kingship, apparently more was expected.
So the idea had been whispered to life, slowly growing and solidifying, until it became its own entity: he needed to control his magic. Not the transformation magic he had discovered; no, that magic didn’t feel as chaotic and dangerous as the raging magma-elephant that burst from his chest. The latter magic had been devastating when he could not control it… He did not want to relive the burned bodies of any he cared about.
And so, in the earliest parts of dawn, he delved into the depths of his chest. Slowly breaking through the icy fear that held it in a vice-like grip (part of him wondered if he shouldn’t just leave it alone; it seemed dormant beneath the cold despair). But, carefully recollecting snippets of memories (Rexanna darting away from him at the Giving Tree, Alysanne’s accusatory shouts, Mauja’s absence at the meeting)— nothing so drastic as to elicit outright rage— he felt the cold bands begin to fall away, heat returning to his chest.
He had stationed Mbwene behind him, and she absently twirled her trunk in his tail. There, he figured, she would be safe, and he could absorb any explosion before harm befell her. He stared over the cliffs; uncertain if it was brilliance or folly to come here to practice. Part of him reasoned that the molten elephant would charge over the cliffs, harming no one. Another part of him grimly recognized that if the elephant backed him against the cliffs, then there would be no where to run.
He snorted as his attention wavered, and he felt the the heat suddenly, explosively expand in his breast, pectorals glowing red-hot. Mbwene trumpeted uncertainly, unused to the strange feeling that rippled through their bond. It was so hot, so angry.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped embraced the anger, the memories— and an elephant screamed in his skull and Mbwene trumpeted in fright; the molten beast of flames and fury erupting from his chest and charging, trunk held up and fiery eyes glowering in rage.
But it toppled over the cliff before it could even find a target, leaving a trailed of melted ice and burning smell behind it.
He snorted and pounded his front hooves in victory, the white cliffs shaking beneath his weight; but his triumph is cut short as suddenly a small being burst out of the trees on the heels of the fiery elephant, followed closely by a second form. The first went over the cliffs, the second skidded to a halt.
He gave a short bellow of warning, desperately calling for cold control over his magic… But his chest was hot, still glowing as his rage and power were close to the surface— ready and easy to sink into. He felt the trumpets shake his skull. It was hotter, growing— teeth clenched and creaked as, with herculean effort, he forced the heat smaller and deeper into his breast. But it was still there, flames licking up his ribs.
He snorted, as recognition hit his navy blue eyes. “Roskuld?” His low voice was hoarse from exhaustion, but his eyes were snapping with intensity. She and Chico had nearly been incinerated, “You should take care near the cliffs.” His sides, darkened with sweat despite the chill, moved with tired breaths, “What are you—” but his question was cut off by the shrill, insistent trumpeting of Mbwene, who abanonded her shelter of his black tail, barging through his thick legs with trunk outstretched towards the flying Chico.
Flapping ears and bright eyes indicated that she wanted to be flying, as Chico was. Until her stubby legs hit the edge of the world, and she looked down— abruptly her trumpet changed to a squeak and she turned on heel, bolting beneath the barrel of Roskuld. It was a long drop from the cliffs.
So the idea had been whispered to life, slowly growing and solidifying, until it became its own entity: he needed to control his magic. Not the transformation magic he had discovered; no, that magic didn’t feel as chaotic and dangerous as the raging magma-elephant that burst from his chest. The latter magic had been devastating when he could not control it… He did not want to relive the burned bodies of any he cared about.
And so, in the earliest parts of dawn, he delved into the depths of his chest. Slowly breaking through the icy fear that held it in a vice-like grip (part of him wondered if he shouldn’t just leave it alone; it seemed dormant beneath the cold despair). But, carefully recollecting snippets of memories (Rexanna darting away from him at the Giving Tree, Alysanne’s accusatory shouts, Mauja’s absence at the meeting)— nothing so drastic as to elicit outright rage— he felt the cold bands begin to fall away, heat returning to his chest.
He had stationed Mbwene behind him, and she absently twirled her trunk in his tail. There, he figured, she would be safe, and he could absorb any explosion before harm befell her. He stared over the cliffs; uncertain if it was brilliance or folly to come here to practice. Part of him reasoned that the molten elephant would charge over the cliffs, harming no one. Another part of him grimly recognized that if the elephant backed him against the cliffs, then there would be no where to run.
He snorted as his attention wavered, and he felt the the heat suddenly, explosively expand in his breast, pectorals glowing red-hot. Mbwene trumpeted uncertainly, unused to the strange feeling that rippled through their bond. It was so hot, so angry.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped embraced the anger, the memories— and an elephant screamed in his skull and Mbwene trumpeted in fright; the molten beast of flames and fury erupting from his chest and charging, trunk held up and fiery eyes glowering in rage.
But it toppled over the cliff before it could even find a target, leaving a trailed of melted ice and burning smell behind it.
He snorted and pounded his front hooves in victory, the white cliffs shaking beneath his weight; but his triumph is cut short as suddenly a small being burst out of the trees on the heels of the fiery elephant, followed closely by a second form. The first went over the cliffs, the second skidded to a halt.
He gave a short bellow of warning, desperately calling for cold control over his magic… But his chest was hot, still glowing as his rage and power were close to the surface— ready and easy to sink into. He felt the trumpets shake his skull. It was hotter, growing— teeth clenched and creaked as, with herculean effort, he forced the heat smaller and deeper into his breast. But it was still there, flames licking up his ribs.
He snorted, as recognition hit his navy blue eyes. “Roskuld?” His low voice was hoarse from exhaustion, but his eyes were snapping with intensity. She and Chico had nearly been incinerated, “You should take care near the cliffs.” His sides, darkened with sweat despite the chill, moved with tired breaths, “What are you—” but his question was cut off by the shrill, insistent trumpeting of Mbwene, who abanonded her shelter of his black tail, barging through his thick legs with trunk outstretched towards the flying Chico.
Flapping ears and bright eyes indicated that she wanted to be flying, as Chico was. Until her stubby legs hit the edge of the world, and she looked down— abruptly her trumpet changed to a squeak and she turned on heel, bolting beneath the barrel of Roskuld. It was a long drop from the cliffs.
Tembovu
you thought you could outrun the world
@Roskuld He was trying to control his magmaphant magic, so Ros has got a frazzled Tembo on her hooves.
And I'm fine with Ros or Chico busting in whenever, despite how I wrote it! :D
Please tag Tembovu.
