[Byleth had not expected the request - neither had he expected Set to all but fold against him. Even now, full on contact was alien to him, the way something in his chest would shudder as if even when atrophied into near nothingness, his heart would try to skip a non-existent beat. Instinct, honed to a razor's edge, twitched like a quivering tripwire: but didn't trigger. This was Set, a man who had invaded his personal space again and again and done nothing more than grip his jaw a little too hard. Desensitisation works, a little.]
As you wish.
[He didn't question the request. The blood-red flowers were beautiful, but in the same way that a devastation could be beautiful. The colours were too vivid, too sharp-edged, and jarringly out of place amongst the crops, their stems winding in a near choking hold around them.
It would be difficult, to burn them without harming the crops, but Byleth's mastery over the flames came to him as easily as breathing. Whether it be forcing the fire beneath the earth to roar to the surface, or manipulating heat to boil water without flame, Byleth's precise control was without peer. It was what he defaulted to, when cornered, when in mid-strike, when thinking on how best to disperse the wall of shields before him: flames were purifying, protective and fierce. They had never failed him, never burned him.
He extended his free arm, and a magic circle unspooled before his palm, the divine Crest of Flames flaring like a firebird's wings. Beneath the circle's gentle glow, the crimson blossoms simply... crumbled to ash.
A glimmer of embers, perhaps, but they burned without fire, breaking up under the gentle breeze that swept over the field, carrying the ashes up in a swirl like a mockery of snow. He burned them, right down to the choking roots tangled up under the dirt, even if this was exhausting and made his head pound from the effort of it... but he was satisfied with the result.
The magic circle flickered out and he lowered his arm. The field around them was now dusted in a very fine layer of ash. Some of it dusted their clothes, skin and hair, a smoky scent thick in the air. To Byleth, it was the norm. Comforting.]
...ash is good fertiliser. [his voice was soft, but it still sounded too loud in the eerie stillness. The blossoms had burned soundlessly.] It'll serve these crops well, at least.
no subject
As you wish.
[He didn't question the request. The blood-red flowers were beautiful, but in the same way that a devastation could be beautiful. The colours were too vivid, too sharp-edged, and jarringly out of place amongst the crops, their stems winding in a near choking hold around them.
It would be difficult, to burn them without harming the crops, but Byleth's mastery over the flames came to him as easily as breathing. Whether it be forcing the fire beneath the earth to roar to the surface, or manipulating heat to boil water without flame, Byleth's precise control was without peer. It was what he defaulted to, when cornered, when in mid-strike, when thinking on how best to disperse the wall of shields before him: flames were purifying, protective and fierce. They had never failed him, never burned him.
He extended his free arm, and a magic circle unspooled before his palm, the divine Crest of Flames flaring like a firebird's wings. Beneath the circle's gentle glow, the crimson blossoms simply... crumbled to ash.
A glimmer of embers, perhaps, but they burned without fire, breaking up under the gentle breeze that swept over the field, carrying the ashes up in a swirl like a mockery of snow. He burned them, right down to the choking roots tangled up under the dirt, even if this was exhausting and made his head pound from the effort of it... but he was satisfied with the result.
The magic circle flickered out and he lowered his arm. The field around them was now dusted in a very fine layer of ash. Some of it dusted their clothes, skin and hair, a smoky scent thick in the air. To Byleth, it was the norm. Comforting.]
...ash is good fertiliser. [his voice was soft, but it still sounded too loud in the eerie stillness. The blossoms had burned soundlessly.] It'll serve these crops well, at least.