The white sheep of the family
Loren found his seat adjusted whether he wanted it or not; there was no way he could avoid it, given the way Remi shifted around underneath him. However, he had to admit this was a much more comfortable perch, and he leaned forward to take a firm grip at the base of the manticore’s mane once more. As the alchemist took to the air, the Launceleyn called out to his luxere. ”It’s okay Astra, I promise.” Thankfully, she either believed him, or trusted Remi after whatever the other man had done to accept his claws as they closed around her, though she did give one anxious bleat. And then they were off, speeding towards the canopy.
At which point Loren discovered two very important facts. First, trees hurt when their branches and sticks slapped against a person in midair, despite the warning that it was about to happen that allowed him to duck his head and protect himself from the worst of the damage. Second, as they emerged into the open air above the forest, that he was not a fan of heights, at least not when he wasn’t in control of the flight. As a queasy feeling built in his stomach, he saw that blood from cuts he’d received from crashing through the top of the trees was falling onto the alchemist's back. The summoner immediately healed himself, but the droplets remained: he found himself staring at the crimson, stark against the fur as they sped ahead. The sight of his own blood was somehow much preferable to the sight of the ground speeding below them. The Launceleyn’s grip tightened until he was white-knuckled. This sucked.
At which point Loren discovered two very important facts. First, trees hurt when their branches and sticks slapped against a person in midair, despite the warning that it was about to happen that allowed him to duck his head and protect himself from the worst of the damage. Second, as they emerged into the open air above the forest, that he was not a fan of heights, at least not when he wasn’t in control of the flight. As a queasy feeling built in his stomach, he saw that blood from cuts he’d received from crashing through the top of the trees was falling onto the alchemist's back. The summoner immediately healed himself, but the droplets remained: he found himself staring at the crimson, stark against the fur as they sped ahead. The sight of his own blood was somehow much preferable to the sight of the ground speeding below them. The Launceleyn’s grip tightened until he was white-knuckled. This sucked.
Will blood tell
