ISKRA
The black grains of the icy beach don't compact or slide the same way as a normal shore does. It's firm, hardened with the consistent chill of the bay dragging her teeth over it, glacial offerings left behind like hickey's on a lover's neck. Noticeable, marked, claimed with affection that won't stay quiet or hidden. So has it always been with the ocean and the beach, a push and pull that's timeless and infinite.
Iskra meanders along the remnants of the dark tide. He's not so foolish as to tiptoe among the base of the curling waves and the brine they fire off like it's a battlefield instead of a beach, but along the ridge where the sand stays drier and a little fluffier. Whenever he's feeling a little homesick, he has a habit of coming here. It's nowhere near resembling Torchline, but there's something to the sound of the waves breaking that always soothes, like a lullaby he can't remember how to sing but can hum along to when he hears it.
He's not necessarily in need of cheering up today, but it's become a bit of habit, wandering here every so often. Not to mention this is a nice open, empty space, a perfect place to practice the magic he can conjure without risk of burning down the very forest he depends upon. He does that now, lit match held in one hand, his other whipping fire from it's heat with a snap of his fingers and a target lined up in his sights. The flame reaches longer now, snarling against one of the larger ice deposits down the way with a hiss of steam, but otherwise little else to see from here. It's stronger than before, but not like the blazes he'd seen others produce, not one that can consume the ice without repeated efforts. Which, fine by him, so he snaps again.
Goose trots alongside him, uncaring of the arson attempts. He's scouring for dead sea life to rub against, maybe even munch on, depends how much Iskra will notice.
Iskra meanders along the remnants of the dark tide. He's not so foolish as to tiptoe among the base of the curling waves and the brine they fire off like it's a battlefield instead of a beach, but along the ridge where the sand stays drier and a little fluffier. Whenever he's feeling a little homesick, he has a habit of coming here. It's nowhere near resembling Torchline, but there's something to the sound of the waves breaking that always soothes, like a lullaby he can't remember how to sing but can hum along to when he hears it.
He's not necessarily in need of cheering up today, but it's become a bit of habit, wandering here every so often. Not to mention this is a nice open, empty space, a perfect place to practice the magic he can conjure without risk of burning down the very forest he depends upon. He does that now, lit match held in one hand, his other whipping fire from it's heat with a snap of his fingers and a target lined up in his sights. The flame reaches longer now, snarling against one of the larger ice deposits down the way with a hiss of steam, but otherwise little else to see from here. It's stronger than before, but not like the blazes he'd seen others produce, not one that can consume the ice without repeated efforts. Which, fine by him, so he snaps again.
Goose trots alongside him, uncaring of the arson attempts. He's scouring for dead sea life to rub against, maybe even munch on, depends how much Iskra will notice.
It's hard to tell the truth when you lie to yourself
Always give too much of you to someone else
I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends
It'll never be too late to start again
Always give too much of you to someone else
I'm talkin' to you now like we're old friends
It'll never be too late to start again
