He, too, has taken to the skies on this threatening winter day. Unlike Elysteria, however, he is far less graceful.
He had discovered the ability quite by accident. One day, as he practiced his ghost-shifting (drawing out the metamorphosis as slowly as possible, testing the effects of it) he became distracted by the flight of a vulture. It rode a thermal high above his head, not needing to flap its great wings even once in the time that Ramiel observed it. He wondered why it was alone. Turkey vultures were unusually social raptors, after all, and the presence of a flock somewhere in the Dale was typical. He thought maybe this one had broken off from the others to scour the land for a kill. He wondered how high up the bird was, nearly at the bottom of a cloud…
He felt himself rising, then. The greying stallion looked down and saw the distance between the ground and his hooves increasing. His thoughts unconsciously fueled him higher. Panic and nausea nearly overtook him then, and he closed his eyes. As soon as he stopped thinking about the bird, though, he felt his ascension stop. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. The land was distraction enough, spread out in unparalleled splendor as it was. Fall had bathed the Dale in reds and oranges and yellows, and the warm light set it aglow. The rivers cut through the hills, nearly turquoise from his vantage point. If anything could squelch his fear, it was the easy beauty of this place.
Ramiel had enjoyed the experience of flying after that, and every day he tried to practice at least a little. One step closer to mastery, he told himself, knowing that it would still be a while until then.
Today is another step. He hovers over the river, a new challenge with actual consequences should he fail. He is almost invisible – able to see through his own dangling legs to the winter-weary land below – but not quite. The air is even colder up here, but he’s learned how to deal with that too. It passes through him so that he can feel only a slight chill proportional to his solidness. The young king is about to fly higher than he’s attempted so far when movement catches his eye. A red-bay streak glides quickly across his line of sight, in obvious pursuit of something. Ramiel lowers himself to the near side of the river, hits the ground with a jarring force that speaks to his lack of concentration at the action, and takes off after Elysteria.
He isn’t terribly worried just yet, but his senses are alert. It could be a new recruit simply unused to the proper etiquette of waiting at the border, or it could be an enemy. He frowns at the thought. When he rounds the corner of trees, though, he sees that it’s only one man. Of course, these days, that doesn’t diminish the possibility of danger. A sole magician had been responsible for the roving werewolves that had ravaged the Dale just before his birth. He doesn’t doubt the power of one, but this man seems harmless enough, if a bit quiet so far.
“As Elysteria said, welcome to the Dale.” He smiles easily at both once he’s reached them. The sunlight is weaker this far into the season, and the air has a bite to it. Ramiel can’t determine the stallion’s origin by scent – he’s never been to the Gates nor met anyone from there – but he can smell a trace of plant life even in the midst of winter. Not the Jungle, he thinks, not nearly pungent enough. He doesn’t know that the Gates has an eternal garden just in its blossoming stage. They have been gifted as the Dale has, but fortunately, the mountain kingdom’s source of power is far less revealing. “I’m Ramiel,” he adds, leaving out his title for now. If it becomes necessary, he will share it, but not before then.
r a m i e l
what a day to begin again