He breathed out, and then in. Out, and then...
The man's eyes opened, lids raising to reveal his sclera and irises, slow blinks following after as he continued to huff, his nostrils inspiring until his lungs were full, only to release. The man held globules of fluid within his palms, their viscosity altered through his ether so that they would not drip from the edges of the basin he had created by flexing the edges of his appendage. They swirled, slowly, the strange liquid nearly as cool as was feasible; if he had not trained his body to endure the cold he created, he would've succumbed to frostbite merely by contact. Nevertheless, the fluid did not freeze, the solution a mixture of water and helium, each individual molecule kept too distant to form a solution compact enough to solidify.
Alistair was no chemist, but being a Risen forced him to understand the way in which liquid worked. The way it changed, and could change, and would change under the right conditions. Being a Risen meant experimenting with possibilities, adding new factors and influences, and evolving the way one interacted with water. A lazy and ultimately mediocre Risen could simply follow the path laid out for them -- wielding only water at its base -- but they would never be the best among their kind. Alistair wanted to be that.
And so, he stood up, slowly, and assembled more globules from the moisture in the air. They accumulated, compiling until the mass of the water in the solution dwarfed the helium, though with that change also came an alteration of the substance's temperature. He continued to breathe in and out, controlling his expenditure of energy, calming his mind so as to avoid excess by drawing magithermal power too greatly or too fast. The density within the accumulating mass was greater than that of the water he normally manipulated, and that helped to allow the mage to sharpen it.
This was his first time forming Laceration, but he was quickly becoming successful. Alistair thinned the solution, turning it into a long, plate-like sheet, extending it and increasing its vertical surface. The Risen wove the water-blade together between his palms, before quickly flinging it outward like a long disc, the weapon cutting halfway through a tree before dispersing into a puddle. He squinted, curling his lips and swishing the tea he'd still carried in his mouth -- it helped him focus. It wasn't a proper Laceration, but it was close. He was beginning to understand the concept of sharpening hydrogen, and for now, that was enough.
"It's not cut all the way," the client complained, narrowing her eyes as she brought her hands forward, clasping them together.
Alistair swallowed his tea. "I am aware," he replied. He flung forward another disc of sharpened water, cutting another third of the way, and then another, dicing right through the palm. Each of the discs exploded into watery puddles, meaning each Laceration was imperfect, but he was making progress each time: it became easier, more natural.
"Ah, there we are," she hummed. "Well -- that will be twenty farthings for you, then, won't it be? Minus one for the tea. You mentioned wishing to court my nephew once you finished your duties? Sunderscrap and all."
Alistair chuckled. "I said 'bed,' not court. You chose to reinterpret it to save face. Not to worry -- I've already stained the bloke's mattress. What did you need me to clear all of these trees for, anyhow? I thought they were a part of the estate's heritage."
"Pre-Ulendreaic heritage means nothing," Veir Alon returned, flatly. "We will be replacing the yard with a brick outing area, and at the center will be a fountain and monument to my father, dear Gaspard. Now -- if you will excuse me, I must rid myself of your filthy, foreign presence, and expunge my nephew's bowels of your stain. Have a blessed day."
The man grinned. "I'm not religious. Be well."
Stepping down the stairwell that led out of the courtyard, he opened the posterior gate, stepping through only to hear a click follow after him; it was locked again. He imagined his interactions with Veir Alon would be limited, after the work he had done for her. They did not get along well, and from the look in her eyes, he could tell she was relieved he meant "bed" and not "court." Alistair had the skill to be a Valran, but she assured him he would never come even close to marrying into her estate without the Montese announcing him as one, first.
Until then, he was nothing but a foreigner who carried some semblance of Ulen's will.
- - -
Hours later, Alistair found himself seated against the back wall of a cafe, the large window in the room's corner opening to allow air and the sun's gleam of light. He relaxed his legs against the surface of the table, nearly kicking over his finished glass of chamomile, his eyes shut with a renaissance plopped onto his forehead to shade his eyes. He was tired, but also satisfied. The Sunderer had a love of traveling, and Bardona was one of the nicer cities he had found in his time within the Empire of Rust. It was not so cold and steel as a Griscian city, and it wasn't as slum-riddled and violently religious as many of the Daravain quandaries he had come across in his year or so living within the Marches.
The man opened his eyes for a moment, scanning the room, only to notice another... man, he presumed, being fed his tea through the wiggling tendrils of worm-like appendages. He blinked rapidly, and appeared to grimace.
"That's disgusting," he said, quietly, to himself, before sitting upright and tossing the Malformer a direct glance, his head tipping. "Mind helping to preserve the appetite of the other patrons here?"
