Post by Sylph on Feb 24, 2006 9:22:01 GMT -5
I wish I were on yonder hill
'Tis there I'd sit and I'd cry my fill,
And ev'ry tear would turn a mill,
Is go dtí tú mo mhuirnín slán
'Tis there I'd sit and I'd cry my fill,
And ev'ry tear would turn a mill,
Is go dtí tú mo mhuirnín slán
It was still late February, but even now those March winds were already beginning to blow, but there was one girl at Firefox who had been anticipating the gales with excited enthusiasm. This girl of course was Sylph, the Gryffindor prefect who was recognised the university over. Naturally, when one saw her there would instantly know why she was considered so distinctive, for Sylph never had been one to blend in. It wasn't only that she towered over most other girls at her respectable height of five foot nine, not was it her hair, despite the fact that it was now waist-length as well as being dyed a violent shade of purple; it wasn't even her almost unnaturally glittering bright green eyes that seemed to flash and spark like loose electrical wiring that made this particular Gryffindor so difficult to ignore. The fact was that Sylph was one of those people who personality matched her appearance, even being as so striking and alarming as it was; this girl was larger than life, always ready for anything, especially if it involved competition. She was in all things a true Gryffindor, always refusing to back down in the face of adversity, rushing headlong into danger with her characteristic dare-devil grin that summed up her personality so perfectly plastered all over her determined features. No, nobody could ignore Sylph when she was in the vicinity.
And today she was no less vivid than usual. She wore an old pair of faded blue jeans and a black short sleeve tee shirt that didn't quite cover her athletic looking stomach. On her feet were a pair of brown walking boots, and while she bore no jacket to stave of the cold, the light in her dazzling peridot eyes burned like green flame. It was cold, yes, but Sylph cared little for the chill in the air; even the worst winters here in Spain were nothing on what she was used to, but the gales were blowing once more, and March winds were something Sylph looked forward to every year. Then again, many people looked forward to the month of March; children got excitable in the stiff winds, rushing around like March hares; adults looked onwards with sighs to the coming of spring and relief from Jack Frost's spells; even birds returned northwards. Of course, the birds here were rather different to those that Sylph was used to seeing in her home in the South of England - even the robins here were different to those plump and aggressive balls of feathers she used to watch in her back garden. There was no song of the blackbird - perhaps the most instantly recognisable of all birdsong, and the one Sylph loved most of all, for the males in that particular branch of the thrush family made their songs up as they went along, each individual had his own style, his own special riffs. Here in Spain, though, there was little more than a few chirping finches, chiping and tweaking, it was just so... mundane. Sylph doubted she would ever stop missing the familiar birds of her homeland. More than any other animal she identified with those denizens of the air; she had often sat and watched the swallows and martins wheeling and diving in the skies during high summer as they feasted upon the fresh supplies of flying ants, twisting and circling with the most amazing acrobatic ease, longing to join with them, to feel the soft press of buffeting air beneath her and supporting her as it did them.
It was therefore perhaps unsurprising that her favourite of all elements was that of the air, of the winds and zephyrs that bustled about her every day, warming and cooling her skin as they saw fit. Her family had often noted that, like the children and hares and birds of spring, Sylph's mood often seemed dependent on which wind was blowing, and how fiercely it blew. Even her own name was the same as the ancient Celts gave to their air spirits, of those elementals that dwelt in the winds themselves. As she strolled along by the river that bright morning, her bare arms were slightly spread to the sides away from her body, and with eyes half closed she faced the wind, enjoying the cold air that rushed past her skin, hands filled with the untouchable element. If she stayed long enough like that, she could feel as if she could actually clutch at the breeze itself, her hands felt a part of it, cold as they were they could still flex and press easily against the wind, and she imagined that the air could be solid in her grasp. Small wonder it was that Talon Windwaltz, now headmaster of this school, had taken it upon himself to teach her in the ways of elemental magic. It wasn't something that everyone could learn, and each person that did have the special talent was usually only in tune with just one of the four primary elements. Talon himself had been a wind mage, until his transformation at the hands of Sylph's old friend, Aidana, who at the time was being trained as a fire mage, into the violet-eyed spiky-haired lightning mage they all knew now as Headmaster Windwaltz. Still, Sylph had learned well, as she always did - the main reason her whole family had assumed she would have been sorted into Ravenclaw (thank heavens she hadn't been) - and now she had mastered several of the skills and spells that made up her particular speciality branch of magic.
Unlike some. There were others that Sylph knew, friends from MH and from Firefox, that had particular attachments to certain elements, but had so far failed to gain any control over them. One of these of course was Roan, the Hufflepuff with the penchant for fire spells, and who had even managed to create a living breathing dragon from metal and fire. Sylph rather envied her that talent - not to mention the fact that Roan now had her very own pet dragon, something Sylph had longed for since she was little, but then again Sylph knew that while Roan was drawn to fire, she also feared it, and the two together was a rather dangerous combination. Sylph, on the other hand, knew and understood her element, it affected her, yes, just as fire affected Roan, but Sylph could also affect it, and that knowledge kept her safe. An unusually serene smile graced the prefect's lips as she continued to play with the wind in her hands, whilst, unbeknownst to her, miniature tempests forming in her palms.
Suddenly, without even the slightest movement from the violet-haired girl below, the fluffy white clouds in the blue and frosty sky above began whirling and reshaping, sculpted and resculpted by some unseen hand. Slowly the cumulonimbi began swirling in a closer-packed pattern, slowly taking the shape of something familiar, something that while seen every day and apparently mundane was actually loved and beautiful in itself to the girl with tornados at her fingertips. It was the shape of a giant plump thrush, the clouds that made up its form so perfectly arranged that the bird seemed to be real, a living breathing hopping creature, searching in the realm of the sky for cloud snails to eat. Even it's eye, inspecting the ground below with that characteristic bird-like curiosity, seemed to be glinting with life and intelligence. All this passed Sylph by though, her eyes still half closed and her face still set in that so un-Sylph-like calm and relaxed state, serene and at one with her surroundings, even if she didn't know it; the girl spinning her threads of magic in and from the breeze.
Again, as suddenly as the cloud-thrush had formed, an impossibly loud and yet soothing whistling noise could be heard, a warbling twittering chirruping tone that seemed to be coming from the earth itself, the trees and the stream resonated with it, giving it life and energy until the air was filled with birdsong and all the natural noises of Sylph's local Common in springtime. The sense and energy of change was in the air, anyone who came upon the Gryffindor girl now would behold a change around her, the grass seemed greener, the light brighter, even the river was shining in a more lively manner.
Spring was here, and, for a moment, Sylph was back home.
bgbg