[They're going to lose the whole pile at this rate, Illarion quickly realizes. His mind's on that--on preparing for when he'll hit the ground--and not the sheer success of his casting.
He has his snowshoes off by the time Vyng exclaims aloud--"Look!"--but he can't look, of course. Iskierka, on the other hand--the rapid dissolution of the pile uncovers the burrowing mothbird, who gives a curious warble and cocks her head back to take in what's happening.
Snow gathers above them in a vast and glittering cloud, tumbling over with internal flurries as it ascends out of Illarion's influence and begins to fall again. It is very lovely, and very strange, and shot through here and there with shafts of color as ice crystals fracture light into rainbows.
Some of the colors are impossible, lying outside the spectrum.
Illarion frowns at that, even as he slides down off the much-diminished snow pile to join Vyng.]
I had not known I had such magic in me, [he murmurs, voice subdued.] It is very lovely. [He isn't even looking at it, too distracted with creeping worry to pretend he's seeing with his own eyes and not his Omen's. (Not that it's much of a secret.)]
We should, I am thinking, grab your pack and move away. Quickly.
[The longer he holds this (like a pressure in his lungs, like keeping air in them against the ocean of crushing natural law around them), the worse those colors will get. Until it's not just colors, until the cost extracts itself from him in flesh.]
no worries at all!
He has his snowshoes off by the time Vyng exclaims aloud--"Look!"--but he can't look, of course. Iskierka, on the other hand--the rapid dissolution of the pile uncovers the burrowing mothbird, who gives a curious warble and cocks her head back to take in what's happening.
Snow gathers above them in a vast and glittering cloud, tumbling over with internal flurries as it ascends out of Illarion's influence and begins to fall again. It is very lovely, and very strange, and shot through here and there with shafts of color as ice crystals fracture light into rainbows.
Some of the colors are impossible, lying outside the spectrum.
Illarion frowns at that, even as he slides down off the much-diminished snow pile to join Vyng.]
I had not known I had such magic in me, [he murmurs, voice subdued.] It is very lovely. [He isn't even looking at it, too distracted with creeping worry to pretend he's seeing with his own eyes and not his Omen's. (Not that it's much of a secret.)]
We should, I am thinking, grab your pack and move away. Quickly.
[The longer he holds this (like a pressure in his lungs, like keeping air in them against the ocean of crushing natural law around them), the worse those colors will get. Until it's not just colors, until the cost extracts itself from him in flesh.]