⟬ Flashback. At the walled gates of the Green Corn Tower, twenty minutes prior. ⟭
⊰ hey ⊱
⊰ listen ⊱
"More complaints, Miss Beatrice?" Tycondrius groaned.
⊰ hurry ⊱
"Little one, the three of us have been *hurrying* for the past couple suns," He scolded. "You may have not have noticed, but normal people cannot *fly*."
Even in the fire elemental's normal form, she was not limited by gravity. She flitted around his head to convey her frustration, her current form being a fiery orb held aloft by four wispy wings.
It was probably supposed to be 'cute.'
Tycon only found the whirling fire orb to be a bother.
Beatrice seemed... weary, forced to reduce her size to conserve her mana. Were it not for her being spurred on by hope and anxious freneticism, Tycon feared she'd... faint-- or whatever the elemental equivalent was.
