Sour-faced, as she always has been, Galadriel squints up at the sun. Her face is scrunched and lips flattened, just unpleasant enough to make any onlooker think she is hiding a lemon beneath her tongue.
The sun is not necessarily unwelcome to Rel. She doesn’t mind its warmth nor does she mind its guidance; but ever since it came back, she struggles to formulate the visions she so perfectly crafted in utter darkness. Here, beneath sweat and sticky fur, she can’t seem to focus enough on her magic to make the world spin on her own personal axis—and if she is not spinning, orbiting, creating the perfect space, then she is as mentioned above: perfectly sour.
So, Galadriel storms through the forest, pausing beneath every large break of the canopy to scowl furiously at the sun. It beats down on her good-naturedly, and she imagines a massive burning ball with giant fists punching her muscles all while wearing a wide-mouthed grin. Huff, she sighs, stepping recklessly forward into the ball of gas that appeared just before her.
“Oh!” Rel cries, flinching as if the envisioned star might burn her; but instead her head pushes through the intangible sun she created. “Oh,” she repeats, sly smirk curling one side of her mouth upward.
My magic is back.
For a time, yes. Her magic is back. Rel walks with the star that hovers beside her, always keeping pace. Even as the sun goes down and strangers peer at her and her new companion, she simply walks, too afraid to change her thoughts or even her path because the little sun might disappear.
It’s when she stumbles Reave that the star disappears. She looks at him with a decidedly sour frown, eyes narrowing. Galadriel can’t tell if he noticed her already, but that doesn’t matter. He made her magic disappear.
“Why are you snorting so loudly?” Rel demands as she approaches him, gait far too aggressive for an apparently innocent stranger.
@[Reave]
The sun is not necessarily unwelcome to Rel. She doesn’t mind its warmth nor does she mind its guidance; but ever since it came back, she struggles to formulate the visions she so perfectly crafted in utter darkness. Here, beneath sweat and sticky fur, she can’t seem to focus enough on her magic to make the world spin on her own personal axis—and if she is not spinning, orbiting, creating the perfect space, then she is as mentioned above: perfectly sour.
So, Galadriel storms through the forest, pausing beneath every large break of the canopy to scowl furiously at the sun. It beats down on her good-naturedly, and she imagines a massive burning ball with giant fists punching her muscles all while wearing a wide-mouthed grin. Huff, she sighs, stepping recklessly forward into the ball of gas that appeared just before her.
“Oh!” Rel cries, flinching as if the envisioned star might burn her; but instead her head pushes through the intangible sun she created. “Oh,” she repeats, sly smirk curling one side of her mouth upward.
My magic is back.
For a time, yes. Her magic is back. Rel walks with the star that hovers beside her, always keeping pace. Even as the sun goes down and strangers peer at her and her new companion, she simply walks, too afraid to change her thoughts or even her path because the little sun might disappear.
It’s when she stumbles Reave that the star disappears. She looks at him with a decidedly sour frown, eyes narrowing. Galadriel can’t tell if he noticed her already, but that doesn’t matter. He made her magic disappear.
“Why are you snorting so loudly?” Rel demands as she approaches him, gait far too aggressive for an apparently innocent stranger.
@[Reave]