1964-02-17 - Balmy Breezes on the Wing
Summary: Nothing like flying practice on a calm day in Limbo — and maybe a reference or two.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
illyana rosemarie 

For Illyana, flight is a matter of thought. Almost equally easy to move Limbo around her metaphysical center of mass as it is to soar across those skies. Seated, standing, in any position, she can move with a thought.

But flying — with wings, on thermals and stroking the sussurant zephyrs that twist and wend over Limbo's strange soil — is an altogether different experience. Her wings beat powerfully, pinions spread wide to catch every stray gust of wind. The thrill of gravity gripping her stomach when the temperature drops suddenly, or the glee of feeling a rush of motion carrying her fifty feet aloft in a matter of moments.

Flying like a bird is infinitely more fun than simply going places in air. She twists deftly to look over her shoulder, watching Rosemarie cutting a parallel path over the alien landscape.

"How are you feeling?" she calls back to the avian woman.


Wings exercised are wings that strengthen with muscle and confidence alike. Gliding is becoming second-nature; it's the matter of retaining height if not also gaining it during the process.

Tufted and streamlined with all limbs tucked close to her body, Rosemarie attempts to gain speed in order to utilize both momentum and another thermal spiral of rising heated air to add another twenty feet to her altitude. And…success! The sharp rise makes her first response to Illy's check-in a lilting laugh that carries across the open (and appropriately-weird) planar landscape below. Within her blood, the Otherness croons contentment and the crests behind her ears flare even as the wings flap once before locking into gliding angling once again.

"I'm good! Not tired yet!" It is a risk, overworking the wing muscles. Limbo's earth is only so forgiving, but she has had the strong arms of the Realm's reigning Queen to catch her. Looking up, the librarian's peachy eyes twinkle for the sight of Illyana. Those ivory-plumed wings always do her such justice.


Illyana barrel rolls around Rosemarie in a wide, swinging arc, and looks for a moment like a bird in full flight. Clad in a dress that seems to swing between black and silver, for a moment it is white as her wings, and the long trail of cloth from her armlets and the train of the simple dress stream behind her like the tassets of a kite — or the tail of some bird in flight.

She loops high over, then back under Rosemarie, wings powering along. Even Illyana must admit a bit of fatigue — back muscles created specifically for this venture were being taxed in unfamiliar ways to power those wings along.

"Is good spot to land, coming up," Illyana says, pointing at a rocky outcropping an indeterminate distance away. "Unless you feel you can make it back to the tower?" she inquires, raising her voice to be heard over the buffeting of the wind.


The brunette eyes the natural piling of earth and looks around her to locate the blonde Mystic.

"We can rest there!" A good idea; if Illyana's getting tired, there's no doubt that Rosemarie is feeling close to the same level of soreness if not a bit more. After all, the Russian can accurately claim a state of body more fit than the one relegated to a chair or simply re-shelving books all day long. Snagging another passing wave of air allows her to rise higher still. She hasn't picked up the art of acrobatics like her ivory-winged lover. It's been dog-eared for later exploration, after she's not concerned about plowing a runnel in the dirt with her face from failed loft.

Her own garment is as streamlined, stolen from a closet in the castle and then willfully changed to fit her own frame. Cream, the sheen of the material granting a buttery reflection or two of light, she's comfortable in the simplicity of it. Even if the ambient atmosphere of Limbo still smells funky, at least it's warm.


Illyana lands with a flip of her wings at the last moment to arrest her momentum — bare feet save her ensemble from being 'formal', though it's an exquisite bit of attire that would turn heads in any world. It's hard to say if it's black or white, or silver, or somewhere in between. The top is a rigid corset, managing to emphasize the scant curves Illyana possesses, particularly compared to Rosemarie's more feminine physique. Elaborate embroidery seems silver in some light and sable at a turn, all the way down to the long train of the hem that puddles near her ankles. Split high, to her waist on both sides, it gives her coltish legs freedom of movement, and more silvered, gossamer fabric flows to the ground from the torcs around her lean triceps and narrow wrists.

"You are getting stronger, every day," Illyana assures Rosemarie. "Flying higher, and for longer. I think soon, might even be able to fly on Earth, da?" she ventures, smiling.


Ah, to have the grace of the Mystic. So too does Rose land, but she's a bit…less…elegant. The back-flap of the night-blue wings does stop her, but she forgets to tense her torso and as such, those long legs swing forwards. With a squeaky sound of denial escaping bared teeth, she rights herself just in time to catch herself in a kneel rather than flat on her tush. Granted, that's definitely happened before, much to the dismay of her tailbone.

"Whew…" she mutters before tucking chin to her chest in order to stretch complaining shoulder muscles. Glancing over at Illy, she grins even as an idle scratch behind one ear assuages the prickling sensation of wind-ruffled crest. "Thank you, Illy. I hope so…I mean, I try very hard, you know. I suppose I can start looking for places to practice — on Earth, I mean, where no one will…get all…freaked out about my wings." Said plumage flaps once as if offering up some snarky silent opinion on the matter before half-folding behind her shoulders.

Her eyes travel up and down the Mystic's dress before she smiles fondly. "That is a beautiful dress on you. I thought you should know." Hands smooth down the sheath of pale fabric she wears to wipe away dirt and wrinkles, split too up the thighs in a mimicry of Illyana's, though not as high; the movement is rooted in general nervousness, likely brought on by the adrenaline rush of flying. "You look very royal in it." Rose's eyes slide away with a bit of a blush to her cheeks and she scans the land around them.


Illyana's face, often at a default of 'haughty disdain', breaks into a brilliant smile at the praise. Pink touches the hot spots of her cheekbones and ears, and she twirls artfully, once, to put the dress on display, the cloth lifting from her arms and legs like a dervish.

Queenly Perk: Illyana's dress seems dust-proof.

"Borrowed idea from a traveler I met," she explains. "Embroidery is beautiful, da? Wrought in sable silver," she explains. She folds her hands across her belly, the firm ridge of her collarbone forming an almost horizontal line from the angular rounds of her shoulders.

"Everything you see — this is my kingdom," Illyana explains, sweeping a hand out towards the horizon. Though there is no sun, there is 'ebb' and 'wax', as she'd explained, times when certain creatures rest and others come out. As the light around them fades, as if in time with her gesture, the vast valley below glows a subtle, low amethyst in color, some form of magical luminescence. The lights seems to retreat until only her distant Citadel is still illuminated, as if hoarding all the sunshine there.


Movement attracts attention and Rosemarie watches with a half-bated inhalation as the fabric lifts and settles about the lean Mystic's body in lieu of the spin. It is enchanting — no, better: bewitching on her.

"Whoever that was has good taste in dresses." Truth though, it's killer on Illyana. Returning to her survey of what she can see from this height, the librarian slowly turns her head. There are a few landmarks to be had, primarily the castle with its singular architecture. "All of this, it's all yours?"

Thus follows the remark from the Queen of Limbo and then comes the light show, all at her whims, and Rosemarie covers her mouth in delight. She nearly seems to melt for how she bends at the waist and her knees knock together. "Oh! Oh, Illy, the land, it glows! What makes it glow?" Fingers interlace before her chin and as she glances over at the Russian, it's no trick of any light: her irises, with their avian hue, glow too.


"Limbo is energy, da?" Illyana says, drifting closer to Rosemarie. "Energy must wax and wane. Is cycle we cannot break, even in this land," she offers. "The plant life absorbs energy during times of high power, and then when it lulls, they use it to grow. Light is effect of plants growing. Some will become shrubs, some bushes— some poison flowers, some into World Toppers," she says, gesturing vaguely at a tree in the distance that looms unimaginably high against the invisible, intangible horizon. "But all have time to rest, and time to grow. Is now time for growing."


Bright eyes disappear in blots behind dark lashes, noted simply for how lids shut off the ambient light emitted from within — bioluminescence, from the Otherness, as natural for the alien blood as is the plumage. Rosemarie shifts her weight, leaning towards the approach even she drops the clutching of hands at chin for a searching out of the Mystic's nearest limb. If found, fingers interlace as if they've always fitted there.

"That is…different. It makes sense though." Wind drifts by, setting loose ends adrift momentarily, from dresses to feathers to hair, and the brunette sighs. "It's wonderful, Illy. It's like…summer twilight. I feel like I should be sitting on my porch and drinking iced tea." They both stand there, surveying what is to be seen and appreciating the simple silence of existing beside one another.

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