Ash 2nd, 120
A cascading pulse in Alphonse's palm sent shivers up her palm as she strode out into the morning air and into the slums. Vagrant eyes looked up and watched her in the fog, her hulking frame a suspicious but unwelcome occurrence. It didn't matter that the people of Lorien didn't like her--she had a job to do, and there was a lull in work. Nothing pulsed except her own damn heart, and she couldn't stand sitting still for long. It was time to train.
There were many abandoned courtyards in Lower Nivenhain, and rotten materials littering the streets just as the smell of the place told stories of how dire things really were. She was here for the Si'Norai refugees as part of her work for the Black Remedy, but the other elves, the humans, and every other odd face under the sun lived and breathed in some capacity here in the dregs of this vast city where problems were swept away under the carpet by those who ran the place. Ugh, it made her sick, but she told herself she was doing good work here at least helping to keep the Dranoch from taking root.
Sa' long as there's no Dranoch anywhere else, the Sil'Norai have a place ta' go.
Is this my Purpose?
Nah. But it damn well should be.
Time will show, but there's nothing I'd rather do.
Purpose was a hard subject for the Rathari. Hers almost felt aimless. It was suffocating. All she knew was to experience new things, to never stagnate, to roam and be free. This whole business with the Remedy gave her that, but she still had to plant roots rather than move on, and that was where she felt contention. It made her cranky, like a smoker with no pipe. Life really is a bitch like that, she thought as she turned the corner into a place she knew to be at least mostly abandoned.
Exhaling a hot breath into the air, fog rolled up from her lips and over her eyes, leaving her whiskers damp and itchy. Stepping around the grass in this ruined place, she grabbed a hold of some rotting rubble and heaved it over to a pile, even rolling an old stone from where an ill-maintained building had crumbled. Stacking it all into a pile in the near-center of the courtyard, she made a target of sorts for herself to have some fun with.
Backing away, she measured five paces, and glanced around to make sure there weren't any commoners about to hassle her. Hand over shoulder, she tugged her blade from its sheath, the heavy stick of sharp metal requiring a sideways tug to fully draw all the way. Even for her, the weapon had a lot of weight to it, but if Sil'norai smiths had made it for her that way, then she'd be damn sure to wield it as best she could. Embers flicked off the edge of the glowing, fiery Enkindled weapon. Forged itself in a wavy pattern like a flame, it earned its name as a flamberge, or 'flame-blade' as some called it.
Sliding one foot back, Alphonse left one forward and let her sword dip, resting against the ground while her clawed, padded hand gripped the hilt tightly. Leering at that pile of rubbish, Alphonse thought to the flame radiating from her core, the Beacon, and let that feeling suffuse her thoughts. Within her palm, sparks of Shrivenflame sputtered to life, and she drew it back as if to throw a javelin, flame trailing in a thin line from the point she squeezed the flame. Her tail lashed with irritation as she glanced up at it--the flames were pathetic, nowhere near what even fellow initiates were capable of. Making flame just isn't my strong suit.
My blade is going to be my bread and butter, dealing with these Dranoch.
Why do I even bother?
I haven't made a shred of progress with the Flame Lance since day one.
With a snarl, she lurched forward and swung her arm through the air, hurling the paltry flame like a dart. It crashed at an odd angle into the farm, creating a hiss of smoky embers that instantly evaporated into nothingness. Alphonse's fist clenched in a surge of welling emotion, and she tore at the air to draw a new flame, baring her fangs with a loud "Hraagh!" She hurled that Flame Lance as hard as she could, and it sputtered uselessly like all the rest. The third began as she drew it out, but she threw her sword to the ground in a fit of fury and the flame was instantly snuffed by that severed connection, leaving her to claw uselessly at the air, stamping her foot.
Staring at the singular flame she'd made, burning there upon the pile with nothing for fuel save for the Ether she'd given it, Alphonse felt miffed beyond words.
"Feckin..."
Useless.
Alphonse' chainmaille ensemble clinked as she bent down to pick up her sword. Rising, she held it in both hands, alternating between her fingers to stave off a burn. She ran a claw along the edge, shaving away the heat as she sighed, her mind roiling with regrets. Speaking, her voice was low and small, barely a whisper. "I'm good with you..."
"But I'll never toss flame like the rest of 'em."
Shifting her weight, Alphonse drew back her blade and twisted her hips, before rolling her arms to swing the blade down in front of her in a wide, vertical slice as she took one big step forward. The metal connected with the heap of rubble, slamming into it with a dense thud as the heat of the blade began to melt through, digging through rotting wood and stone alike before she yanked her blade back out of the mess and brought it up to bare. Curling her back ankle around, she swung her blade through the air, the weight and momentum forcing her to turn where she didn't intend.
With a sigh of exertion, Alphonse let her sword tip fall to the ground, looking between her feet and slowly shaking her head. Malek, you bastard.
I'm gonna die out here if your Pyromancy doesn' work fer me.
Throwing her head back, Alphonse shut her eyes and snorted. I've got other things ter fight with, anyhow, she told herself. Opening her eyes, she looked at her bare, empty hand, curling her fingers into the symbol of Tyrnac. As she did, she could feel the presence of her Patron, and even if she'd been stubborn about it at times, the feeling was comforting. Tyrnac brought her results where Pyromancy did not, after all. I need to rely on more than just Pyromancy.
Otherwise 'm dead meat walkin'.
Maybe Vesta'll give me some ideas.
'Cos in the mean time, all've got is me sword arm, me parlor tricks, and me good looks.
Chuffing, Alphonse peered around and drew her up blade, carefully feeding it to the scabbard on her back. Her heart beat with a burning intensity as she kicked the smoldering rubble and snuffed out what little flames remained. Turning back around, she walked a bit more towards the center of the courtyard and leaned down, extending herself into a planking position with her mitts on the ground. Every day, day by day.
Gotta stay in shape.
Standing on her hands and the toes of her boots, Alphonse let her elbows splay wide, lowering her frame closer to the earth as her muscles warmed with complaint. Pushing against the earth, she rose in rebellion to its pull. "One," she murmured aloud.
"Two."
. . .
"...F-forty," grunted the woman, her arms quivering with strain. Sweat coalesced beneath her fur, a cool sensation permeating her body as she called it quits and got to her feet, swinging her arms around and binding them one at a time in the other's elbow. Twisting her body, she stretched away the tension. Shutting her eyes and rolling her neck, she opened them shortly after her muscles popped, starting out of the alley to begin her day. "Doin' the best I can," she muttered to herself. "Feck it all."
Walking out to the street, Alphonse's neck swiveled as she glanced around at the foreigners, the refugees, and the locals alike--things were picking up for the day, like clockwork. Puffing her cheeks out, her tail lashed at the air and she sighed once more. It didn't matter how hard she worked, it always felt pointless, to her. Even if the work she did was for a good cause, it rarely ever made her happy, and the praise always felt undue. She wanted more, and she wanted everyone around her to do more. Her expectations were high, but she knew most of these bastards were just too weak to even bother.
