Truth be told, she is a poor magician.
She mostly uses her magic for little more than the trappings of lightning on her skin, it has been years since she has done more than that. She thinks about it, sometimes, but reaching out beyond herself to do much to the world seems exhausting.
Magic couldn’t bring Spyndle back, so really, what’s it worth?
Still, she likes she sense of protection. She likes knowing what the lighting could do to them (them is vague and indescribable, here, for Cordis has not been hunted in decades, but she will never forget the sound of the hounds). She likes the feeling of power, of safety.
She stops when he moves, nods a little at his response, takes in his name. Gale, like a storm – fitting, then. Her own name means nothing – she pulled it from somewhere, long before she knew the feeling of lightning – but she offers it anyway.
“I’m Cordis,” she says. Her name sounds almost strange on her tongue, for she hasn’t spoken to anyone in a very long time. She should say more, she thinks, but then he saves her by asking a question - how long have you been like that?
“Oh,” she says, considering – time has gotten so strange – and scrapes together an answer, “a long time, but I wasn’t born with it, I’m just quite old.”
She doesn’t look it – magic keeps her not only lightning-clad, but lovely, too – but she feels it. God, does she feel it.
“What about you?” she asks, and then she asks a question of her own, “do you like it? How it makes you feel?”
I’ll touch you all and make damn sure
Cordis
that no one touches me
@
Gale