Lighting it up, going to burn to the ground
The slide of her touch over his shoulder turns his grin from the crowd to flash back at her, winking in pointed communication. She's seen him work his magic plenty of times to know the show is just that, a show, and plenty of the gathered likely know it too. There's just something about watching someone willing to do the funny dance though that draws your eye, well, that and a massive fiery snake.
As Mel's holler rises up over the market in clear challenge, her expression finding his with purpose, he flows back into the role as well. "I can take on anyone here!" he boasts loudly, a peacock's pride threaded into every word as it punctuates the market. Happy to demonstrate to the grumbling and unconvinced crowd, he leans down to tuck in his pant legs to his boots, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He deposits anything he's got other than the bone shield on his back, which would not only serve as a surface to shield him from too much heat, but needs the kiss of the bonfire as well.
He positions himself before the stretch of blazing wood, breathing in a steadying breath. His shield is not fireproof yet, and neither is he. He's done this before though, but there's always the risk of something catching, or a stride fumbling. At least now he could snuff the flames out if need be, but with neither he nor Mel having healing, it'd still be a bruised ego and some cooked skin or cloth for the trouble. Pushing those doubts aside with another deep inhale, Iskra rocks back on his heels and sprints forward. He gave himself enough distance to the bonfire to work up some speed, then pushes off on his toes and sails through the flame. The heat swirls around him, greedily pushing in, trying to grab at hair and skin and fabric, washing over the bone shield as the wind of his motion pulls it back behind him. He flies over to the other side, arms windmilling as he lands and surges forward a stride or two until the momentum dies out. He pats at one flame-touched portion on his shoulder, and his bear hairs have curled up, but overall, he's whole.
He strikes a pose after recovering, hands held outstretched, a bow given to the flame. "Who's next?"
As Mel's holler rises up over the market in clear challenge, her expression finding his with purpose, he flows back into the role as well. "I can take on anyone here!" he boasts loudly, a peacock's pride threaded into every word as it punctuates the market. Happy to demonstrate to the grumbling and unconvinced crowd, he leans down to tuck in his pant legs to his boots, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He deposits anything he's got other than the bone shield on his back, which would not only serve as a surface to shield him from too much heat, but needs the kiss of the bonfire as well.
He positions himself before the stretch of blazing wood, breathing in a steadying breath. His shield is not fireproof yet, and neither is he. He's done this before though, but there's always the risk of something catching, or a stride fumbling. At least now he could snuff the flames out if need be, but with neither he nor Mel having healing, it'd still be a bruised ego and some cooked skin or cloth for the trouble. Pushing those doubts aside with another deep inhale, Iskra rocks back on his heels and sprints forward. He gave himself enough distance to the bonfire to work up some speed, then pushes off on his toes and sails through the flame. The heat swirls around him, greedily pushing in, trying to grab at hair and skin and fabric, washing over the bone shield as the wind of his motion pulls it back behind him. He flies over to the other side, arms windmilling as he lands and surges forward a stride or two until the momentum dies out. He pats at one flame-touched portion on his shoulder, and his bear hairs have curled up, but overall, he's whole.
He strikes a pose after recovering, hands held outstretched, a bow given to the flame. "Who's next?"
Iskra
