[And easy as that, their quiet words dissolve in sound of wild noise, wind and movement: Jean with blades, and boy with ice in hand; a vine's lash missing only barely next; Shoto's palm a sudden burst of white: right hand whipping out ice in shards along a violent windswept arc of frost. Pale glass leaving as slips and needles shaped. He splits a second, flowered branch in two; scythes through boughs to spill its petals, first. Preserved in halves and whole pieces, split blooms dancing along the dirt in bits.
no subject
He calls out running, now, quickly.]
You can still use your flames, right?
[He has an idea!]