Neron
Neron is ice skating. Not in the traditional sense; there are no blades on his feet, but his magic makes the ground slippery and he glides across it like a ghost. His cheeks are flushed and he’s a mess, in comparison to his usually put-together-self. His shirt is wrinkled and buttoned up wrong, and his hands are buried in the pockets of pants that have holes in the knees.
And the Sea of Glass is calling to him, singing something ghostly that promises excitement and distraction. The Hailstorm is all about that right now, skidding to a stop at the banks, squinting out to see if there’s... there is. A nest.
He doesn’t hesitate, ice magic trying to bolster the crack beneath his feet as he steps out, intent on finding out what was in the nest.
And the Sea of Glass is calling to him, singing something ghostly that promises excitement and distraction. The Hailstorm is all about that right now, skidding to a stop at the banks, squinting out to see if there’s... there is. A nest.
He doesn’t hesitate, ice magic trying to bolster the crack beneath his feet as he steps out, intent on finding out what was in the nest.
i am mine
before i am ever anyone else’s
before i am ever anyone else’s
