ooc: Cool. And fantastic, by the way.

ic: Pip lay panting in the snow, stunned for only a moment before fury filled his chest.
You, he thought. You creep into my evening and steal away my peace... you grab me roughly and peer at me curiously... I am alien to you; you are not alien to me...

He felt his righteousness rising, a phoenix long fallen crying out from the ashes of his resolve. Let their be blood, then - he was not unfamiliar with it. Beneath his soft skin lay a heart made by the hands of Chaos; and, by God, did it thunder now.

"Boy," called Pip, relishing in the growl her heard in his own voice.

The gaping lad snapped to at once, hisbthrill-of-the-chase dropping from his limbs and turning his green eyes sharp, focused. Pip realized that he was just a boy, really, and for a brief moment he felt reluctant to persue this any further.

Then the boy smiled. It was slanted, a little ********-sure, and was exactly the last thing Pip wanted to see. The boy's eyes travelled up to the smoking jagged nub jutting lamely out of the tree, then down to the twisted branch beneath Pip. Though he couldn't be sure, Pip thought he saw a flicker of guilt pass over the boy's face like a wave on a beach, and recede just as quickly.

Snow was starting the fall again. Bright points of white burning the black of the sky. Pip regarded the house they had stopped beside.

He raised his voice so the boy could hear; he said Sleep.

There was no visible change in situation, save the boy's look of comprehension.

Pip leapt up the side of the tree, scaling around the smoldering stub with ease, and perched on a higher branch. The posture of the lad tightened - he was ready, for sure, and Pip was determined to make it memorable. This Choas is long unstirred.

He pointed to the neighbouring house. And the next. Each time he gestured, and a said, Sleep. They heard a glass shatter, but that was all.

Then he turned he glowing gold eyes to the boy. The more he focused, the brighter they became; the stronger his magic manifested in those secret, special reserves. He hadn't used any in a while. He felt a delicious sense of surpluss.

Speaking loudly and forcefully, he said Chill.

First it began in the fingers and toes, which you curl in your boots but cannot feel. The it runs up your limbs, a white charriot that burns, first, before leaving a deadened, painful cold in its wake. You feel it moving surely towards your heart. Your breath comes out in billowing clouds, doubled from before. The sight of the falling snow provides an ironic distraction, for though it twirls and spirals down merrily, its cousin in your veins has quickened the pace, and in moment you know you might be dead...