ice ice baby *doo doo doo d-d-doo doo*
Second one in the elemental magic set. 'Ice'.
(I think this one is Kaeliax himself. But one never knows.)
His temperature drops, bringing the air around him with it.
He breathes steadily, and each time he exhales, it's a long puff of fog escaping his blue-tinged lips; he can never tell if he's dreaming the ice that forms in his chest, sharp and cold, but the the chill is spreads quickly through his body either way. His hands are white from the cold, his arms stiff, half-frozen; his throat is dry and numb and his breath is caught in his chest, gasping out faint, white clouds.
The sun is warm on his face- he stands in the field on a hot day- and moisture drips down the back of his neck as he struggles to maintain the temperature, even though he's already gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering; he sends the cold moving through his arms, ice creeping in slivers and splinters and reaching his hands, where his fists are clenched and white and flushed and shaking (and one day, even his immortality won't save him from this hypothermia).
One beat. Two beats. Enough.
He throws his hands forward, spreading them wide, and the frost spikes through his fingers, spraying cold shrapnel as he pivots, puncturing the target dummy in half a dozen places; and he catches the last spits of ice on the ends of his fingers like claws as he's diving forward, melting, sharpening points, tearing the dummy's throat wide open.
The air is filled with tiny, glittering shards of ice, and as he slumps down to rest his hands on his knees, they fall around him like rain; sunlight warms his unfeeling fingers, melting the frost caught in his hair.
(I think this one is Kaeliax himself. But one never knows.)
His temperature drops, bringing the air around him with it.
He breathes steadily, and each time he exhales, it's a long puff of fog escaping his blue-tinged lips; he can never tell if he's dreaming the ice that forms in his chest, sharp and cold, but the the chill is spreads quickly through his body either way. His hands are white from the cold, his arms stiff, half-frozen; his throat is dry and numb and his breath is caught in his chest, gasping out faint, white clouds.
The sun is warm on his face- he stands in the field on a hot day- and moisture drips down the back of his neck as he struggles to maintain the temperature, even though he's already gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering; he sends the cold moving through his arms, ice creeping in slivers and splinters and reaching his hands, where his fists are clenched and white and flushed and shaking (and one day, even his immortality won't save him from this hypothermia).
One beat. Two beats. Enough.
He throws his hands forward, spreading them wide, and the frost spikes through his fingers, spraying cold shrapnel as he pivots, puncturing the target dummy in half a dozen places; and he catches the last spits of ice on the ends of his fingers like claws as he's diving forward, melting, sharpening points, tearing the dummy's throat wide open.
The air is filled with tiny, glittering shards of ice, and as he slumps down to rest his hands on his knees, they fall around him like rain; sunlight warms his unfeeling fingers, melting the frost caught in his hair.