An expanded moment from in-game RP, as it was inappropriate to write a long emote at the time.
![[Image: tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png]](https://40.media.tumblr.com/ad3bee96533553de4327d8fcd1defd67/tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png)
Aden stepped to the edge, newly disturbed snow falling away over the cliffside, stared down into the collapse and past the dragon carcass to the ground below. He knew now Flynt had meant his explanation not merely to be instructive, but preparatory. He muttered quietly so only Flynt might hear, “This is one of those fly before you can crawl things, isn’t it?†And he grinned as Flynt turned to regard him, a strange, giddy sort of anticipation welling up inside.
“It is,†Flynt answered, voice equally quiet and matching Aden’s perhaps slightly maddened grin with his own,, confident. Then, “Here,†he said, and pressed something into Aden’s hand, “for luck.â€
Then he leapt, and when Flynt went over the edge the others followed, by magic or other means. Aden looked down at the bauble in his hand, a small, purplish stone, then tucked it securely in under the collar of his armor and turned back to the edge.
“It is bending the aether to your will,†he recalled Flynt’s words but moments before, “but unlike the magic of others. A dragoon does not have faith he will make the jump–he has confidence. He knows.â€
Aden closed his eyes, took a deep breath–but it was not breath, it was the concept of air as much as air itself, it was lightness suffusing him. Every tiny shift and tension in him stilled in a moment of perfect balance. Then he jumped.
He did not hesitate because he had been born to this, meant for it from the moment he first drew breath. In the bright, weightless instant at the height of the leap he knew peace, a great silence in the soul as he held that air inside. In that moment of equilibrium, of suspension, all else fell away. No nerves, no worry that he seemed foolish or simple and inexperienced, no fear that the others might know him for the child he still often felt he was. Only that gentle cradling in the brief escape of gravity, only the now.
And then speed. A laugh tore itself from his throat as he went hurtling towards the ground, some of that held air escaping him in purest exaltation. He opened his eyes to see the ground rushing up and felt no fear. He had not merely been born to this, he had in every moment been living for it, his whole life leading to this one instant of grand discovery. It was every time he’d spurred a bird to full speed, tearing wild and foolish through the Twelveswood. It was the rush of storm winds around him, the electricity of one of the Shroud’s frequent storms inside him. It was the white-hot adrenaline surge of his first real fight, and the moment of whooping joy when Nadine had agreed to let him go. And it was yet more, too much for any of these things to compare.
It was birthright, reclaiming what his father had closed off from him in casting him off years ago, and it was surging up beyond the choking, restrictive fear of his adoptive mothers, past the constant insistence that he was gentle, and kind, and meant for something quiet. It was in him, it always had been, and he had known, no matter how hard others had tried to shelter him.
He landed in a puff of snow, taking a knee to consume some of his momentum, and rose smoothly, unscathed, for a moment yet heedless of the others around him, and grinning proudly. He felt breathless, senses rendered keen by adrenaline, yet Flynt’s smile of approval seemed to be the only thing that mattered. He had listened some weeks ago, after all. The first person who had seemed willing to do so.
Then a voice spoke from the shadows beneath the cliffs and that proud smile on Flynt’s face died before he turned away.
Anabasis
Aden stepped to the edge, newly disturbed snow falling away over the cliffside, stared down into the collapse and past the dragon carcass to the ground below. He knew now Flynt had meant his explanation not merely to be instructive, but preparatory. He muttered quietly so only Flynt might hear, “This is one of those fly before you can crawl things, isn’t it?†And he grinned as Flynt turned to regard him, a strange, giddy sort of anticipation welling up inside.
“It is,†Flynt answered, voice equally quiet and matching Aden’s perhaps slightly maddened grin with his own,, confident. Then, “Here,†he said, and pressed something into Aden’s hand, “for luck.â€
Then he leapt, and when Flynt went over the edge the others followed, by magic or other means. Aden looked down at the bauble in his hand, a small, purplish stone, then tucked it securely in under the collar of his armor and turned back to the edge.
“It is bending the aether to your will,†he recalled Flynt’s words but moments before, “but unlike the magic of others. A dragoon does not have faith he will make the jump–he has confidence. He knows.â€
Aden closed his eyes, took a deep breath–but it was not breath, it was the concept of air as much as air itself, it was lightness suffusing him. Every tiny shift and tension in him stilled in a moment of perfect balance. Then he jumped.
He did not hesitate because he had been born to this, meant for it from the moment he first drew breath. In the bright, weightless instant at the height of the leap he knew peace, a great silence in the soul as he held that air inside. In that moment of equilibrium, of suspension, all else fell away. No nerves, no worry that he seemed foolish or simple and inexperienced, no fear that the others might know him for the child he still often felt he was. Only that gentle cradling in the brief escape of gravity, only the now.
And then speed. A laugh tore itself from his throat as he went hurtling towards the ground, some of that held air escaping him in purest exaltation. He opened his eyes to see the ground rushing up and felt no fear. He had not merely been born to this, he had in every moment been living for it, his whole life leading to this one instant of grand discovery. It was every time he’d spurred a bird to full speed, tearing wild and foolish through the Twelveswood. It was the rush of storm winds around him, the electricity of one of the Shroud’s frequent storms inside him. It was the white-hot adrenaline surge of his first real fight, and the moment of whooping joy when Nadine had agreed to let him go. And it was yet more, too much for any of these things to compare.
It was birthright, reclaiming what his father had closed off from him in casting him off years ago, and it was surging up beyond the choking, restrictive fear of his adoptive mothers, past the constant insistence that he was gentle, and kind, and meant for something quiet. It was in him, it always had been, and he had known, no matter how hard others had tried to shelter him.
He landed in a puff of snow, taking a knee to consume some of his momentum, and rose smoothly, unscathed, for a moment yet heedless of the others around him, and grinning proudly. He felt breathless, senses rendered keen by adrenaline, yet Flynt’s smile of approval seemed to be the only thing that mattered. He had listened some weeks ago, after all. The first person who had seemed willing to do so.
Then a voice spoke from the shadows beneath the cliffs and that proud smile on Flynt’s face died before he turned away.
