18th of Frost, Year 119
He outstretched his hand, and touched the flame that burned before him. It was hot and resistant to the sway of the wind, and most of all it could not feed or be stoked. It was static, remaining exactly where it was, the place he'd called it to land on and to burn for as long as was consciously desired. He had to admit that even though the Beacon warmed him, the chill of the surrounding winds had lessened his mobility, and fragmented his focus. The fire before him now was, if anything, a deterrent to keep him sane.
Taelian stepped back, holding firm on the balls of his feet, extending his legs outward on each side as he moved into ready stance. He stood by a river on a cliff-faced edge, the stone he walked on covered in moss and weeds that had found a way to bury themselves within the cracks. Taelian liked the smooth surface of the stone; he'd removed his shoes and danced along the platform, almost certain that doing so helped him in moving with more alacrity. The Siltori was still trying to figure out his own style -- how he liked to fight, and on what terms, and where. If he was to hunt Dranoch among these forests, he would need to learn to fight by his lonesome, and lure his foes into conditions more favorable.
He found that these precipitous areas - like along a river's edge - were far from favorable for him. He did not have the same precision or dexterity a Dranoch would, and he was prone to fumbling and falling. Right now was about learning to transition each movement fluidly into another, without losing balance, regardless of the flow of the movement before. Even a sliding kick or a long descent would need to be transitioned, perhaps into a role or an immediate upward recovery. Taelian tried to do so with a slide against the floor, though distracted by the slight burn of the stone against his skin, he stopped in place and grumbled a complaint.
The Siltori rose, patting off the back half of his pants and attempting to swipe away at the dust on the fabric of his shirt. The Siltori stepped backward and attempted to return to proper position, moving into a supposedly acrobatic stance, only to notice a sudden shifting in the ground beneath him. The large stone platform began to tilt forward, and Taelian was immediately thrown off of his footing. He began to slide toward the cliff face, and in his panic his response was unfortunately delayed. He fell to the ground and attempted to clutch the stone with his fingernails, clawing into the nearest available gap, but by then his feet had fallen off of the ledge and in a short series of seconds, Taelian had been plunged into the violence of the river below.
He landed on a large object and plunged it down with him. Trying to register what he felt, he could only compare it to the texture of a large aquatic animal, like a fish or worse -- a predator. Unrestrained panic ensued. His arms flailed for a few short moments before he saw the shape of the entity before him, his fears distorting his perception. Taelian began to draw his blade, but before he could pull it from its sheathe he had been pushed down to the sandy floor by the river's current, and in that moment his breath escaped him.
He gagged and instinctively attempted to yell, though this only allowed more water to enter through his mouth and into his lungs. Taelian closed his lips immediately, attempting to refocus his view, though at the edge of his peripheral he started to discern what the entity he'd fallen onto actually was. It looked... like a blue person, and with that acknowledgment all of his fears grew marginally worse. Vethcairn?
