Ni'Srilan: The Desert: If I was in World War II, they'd call me Spitfire; STRANDWOLF

If I was in world war II, they'd call me spitfire

“I think you already are,” Baraqel says with a little smile as Strandwolf declares his intentions to become Silver soon.

Damn, he’s come a long way.

There’s a quote that goes, “Give a man a fish and he has food for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he has food for a lifetime.” Chinese proverb, of course, because all wise sayings are Chinese proverbs. Baraqel’s stepfather, Alshain, told him that one, and somehow it simmers to the top of his mind now.

Strandwolf mentions his Super, and Baraqel nods with a smile. “Let’s see – whoa.”

The ground is spinning; the cacti, which he had formerly been keen on tormenting, seemed to rise and march toward him with sinister grins on their faces. He staggered, and a random diffusion of chaotic energy set a nearby shrub on fire. And – holy crap, is that a blue elephant?

It stops, and Baraqel stops swaying, his forelegs splayed out and a disheveled swath of crimson mane cast across an amber eye. “I should do that more often,” he says, shaking his head to rid himself of the last shreds of drowsiness. Of course, it would have been less amusing if Strandwolf had actually been trying to hit him during that period. It reminds Baraqel a bit of his father’s infamous Stupefy, minus the flashing lights, booming thunder, and air of general malaise.

“While we’re on the topic of supers,” he says, and he takes a couple of steps back. “Enter, Ignition.”

A tremendous, deafening crack splits the sky, and suddenly an enormous thunderbolt descends from the heavens. It strikes Baraqel himself, and instantly sets him ablaze – a walking equine inferno, mane and tail billowing, eyes shimmering deep orange, a cloud of fire roaring around him. Sparks diffuse, far-reaching and devastating, from the flame. He rears, and with another clap a wave of Lightning goes out from him, an explosion which chars the sand in a circle around him as the flames finally smolder down to angry embers and vestiges of flickering fire at his hooves.

It makes for good stress-relief, too. Why get a squeeze ball when you can blow shit up?

“You’re a silver now,” Baraqel declares, stepping out of the small ember circle of his own creation and suddenly much more businesslike. “Have you thought of taking on a student of your own? You are sufficiently learned in the ancient precision-art of Blowing Crap Up to pass it on to another,”

He says it with a smile. It will make Baraqel…a grand-sensei, or something.

…No.

B A R A Q E L;
you've been thunder~~struck~~;
LIGHTNING III || FIRE III || IGNITION
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