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Seizing: Glory of Saidin
Wed Dec 20, 2006 20:46 (XFF:,

For all the snow, for all the daring grip of winter, Ansel would not allow himself to be distracted.

His channeling was fluent. Water and Air were caught from his grasp on invisible tendrils of nothingness, being woven with all the delicate grace that one might attribute to . . . to what? Falling snow? Lotus blossoms? A dancer? Light, it seemed as if there were numerous objects that might deserve to accomplish such a simile, but none appeared to capture the fluid grace of saidin’s composed movements. Maybe it was just him. He didn’t think so.

Reaching these blue-and-yellow threads into the heavens, Ansel stepped back, shielding his hazel eyes from the light of the sun. As far into winter as it was, the sun was little more than a pallid ball of spun gold, but he didn’t want to strain his sight anyway. And, as he channeled, a fell breeze began to stir within the air. Clouds roiled, taking on darker, more sinister shades of blue. Thunder roared miles above, churning and tearing malevolently, and lightning flared with a wicked sort of glee.

He smiled minutely to himself, saidin coursing sheer life through his veins. It was . . . remarkable. Ansel Melangel had only been tested recently for the Talent of Cloud Dancing, and, as it seemed, this Talent was his. A strength in Water and Air had foretold as much. As he stood there on the Blasting Grounds, a solitary figure against the world, he watched colours and flashes and hues of something he created spin about in the heavens overhead. It was an unnaturally empowering feeling. Was this how the Creator felt, mayhap?

There was little challenge indeed in playing around with Talents. Ansel was of a rather easy-going personality, and he didn’t often allow difficulty to frustrate him. When an issue presented itself to him, Ansel was assertive in his overcoming thereof; that was the way of his world. As such, he was a Jack, and–well, he didn’t like to parade his skills, but he had them. In four short months of holding the silver Sword of a Dedicated, there already were whispers of a possible ascension. The sheer notion of becoming an Asha’man sent shivers of delight through him.

At that, Ansel released his hold on the Power, smiling. A smile was not an unusual thing for his face: his countenance was round, with heavy dimples that invited mirth on his cheeks. His hair was a very comfortable shade of a blonde, as he saw it. While his face seemed to sag–his cheeks had too much skin, he still thought–there was nothing particularly ferocious about how he looked. Not that that was a good thing, anyway. What kind of Asha’man had a baby face?

Bah, there were better things to think about.

Today was to bring a new change in Ansel’s schedule. With his skills reaching their apex as far as what he could learn as a Dedicated, teaching positions were beginning to pile up on him to no end. Instead of practising the sword, or working on some fell combative weaves, he was sent to teach another Soldier–or more!–how to seize the Power.

With that thought bearing fruition in his mind, Ansel embarked across the Blasting Grounds, padding off in the direction of the West Classrooms. Whatever initiates, singular or plural, he was to teach, would be told by an Asha’man to meet there for their instruction. Ansel would be that instruction. Already, he began casting back in thought for what he’d learned in his seizing lesson. He smiled. Light, this would be fun!

Upon his arrival, Ansel seated himself awkwardly behind the desk at the front of the classroom. It felt . . . outlandish. He was still a student; what business did he have to be here? It felt wrong. After not long, two young men entered the room, and the Dedicated touched his lips with tongue lightly. Excitement blossomed in him.

“Good morning,” he said, standing with a grin. Ansel was only of average height; though, as the students had seated themselves already upon their arrival, he had to peer down at them. Already, both had been suited in their Soldier gear: black coats with matching trousers. Nothing more, nothing less. “Today, I’ll be giving you your first lesson here at the Tower. That is, I’ll be teaching you how to use the One Power. There’s a lot to learn, so I’ll try not to waste too much time. If both of you could tell me your name, age, and country of origin, that’d be great.”

OOC: Hey, guys. *grins* It’s seizing time.

If you would, could you have Pigarin and Haldo arrive at the classroom and give their introduction? Ansel will be teaching them, so it’s all good. Remember to spell/grammar check your posts, and to include a brief physical description into the body of the post. That’d rock. :D Oh, and I’d like a 400-word minimum, but feel free to write more.

The next part will be up in a week, though maybe less if you’re both quick. ^_-; Thanks!

    • Completion!Mark, Fri Jan 5 20:37
      Hooray! You receive seizing credit! Excellent work, and I look forward to seeing you in the Traveling lesson. *grins* /|\Mark
    • Part II: Lights and FilamentsDedicated Ansel Melangel, MuC, Wed Jan 3 13:57
      “Could there have been some mistake? Surely there is no way to tell that I channel until I actually do. I don’t understand, how could the Asha’man tell I could channel just by making me stare into a... more
      • A Little Less Fear, A Little More PowerSoldier Pigarin Maenred, Fri Jan 5 17:26
        Pigarin was crestfallen. He had hoped beyond hope that the Dedicated would say there had been a mistake, that everything was fine and that he could leave. Walk away from the One Power, from the war,... more
    • Part I: A Long-Winded ApproachDedicated Ansel Melangel, MuC, Wed Dec 27 10:26
      Ansel nodded as the Soldier, Pigarin, made his introduction. His greeting was spoken with the undecided quaver that reminded Ansel of, well, himself some number of months back. Upon his arrival at... more
      • Fear for SurvivalSoldier Pigarin Maenred, Wed Dec 27 23:21
        Pigarin stared directly at the floor, examining one small spot. There was nothing particularly fascinating about it, nothing that differentiated it from any other, except that it was the one he had... more
    • Tired, Sore and AfraidSoldier Pigarin Maenred, Wed Dec 20 21:54
      Pigarin gasped for air when the Asha’man finally let him stop running. Sweat gleamed across his face despite the snow, and his long mass of black hair was matted to his head. Apparently there were... more
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