[ She keeps her attention focused upon him, worried about this potentially overbearing new power he might have acquired. Pyra frowns. This is difficult, and she can see why he has asked for help with hearing-- whom? She does not know, but he seems to be speaking to someone. Another messenger, perhaps? Ah, there's a ring upon his finger, smooth and cool against her own, yet burning at the same time... She does not know what it symbolizes, but from it she feels--
When his light does begin to intertwine with hers, it is then that she understands what he means by noise, how overwhelming it is... and sad. Old, long passed but not forgotten. While she neither makes out voices nor words, she intuits the energy itself to have an intent, sentience, a will of its own, and all coming from a point upon his hand, yet a--... collective? It is difficult to tell, yet one thing is certain: this new power seems to not fight his own, but want to complete it.
She feels this noise as jumbled and harsh, and it alone causes her to wince, to gasp through parted lips as she feels the impact of the energy through him, striking her through their connection. ] Ah-- [ Her hand tightens upon his, but she remains focused. It's like staring at a distressed, vicious line upon a graph and not realizing that it's comprised of many different components that braid and integrate together, ready to weave into the final piece that is him, ready to thrive.
When he says that he's trying, her energy will feel like a touch upon his shoulder, holding him steady and remaining there. Wordlessly: You're doing good. You got this. Signal masking occurs when frequency of the sound matches the frequency of the noise generated; her own energy's pitch is softer and lighter, coming to his mind with warmth. He will be able to feel the support she attempts to give as the noise tumultuously ricochets throughout. Through him, she can feel it echo unpleasantly within her own mind not as anything distinct, but as sheer divine power. If this power were outside, it would surely make the very pebbles upon the ground quake with its booming weight.
He's attempting to placate it, to calm it, to assuage that he is there and willing to accept... She thinks this is the right way to go, instead of beating it into submission. This is going to be the more difficult route-- for the both of them-- thus in preparation:
Breathe. He has to remember to breathe as they go deeper. His heart, too, must remember to beat.
And this time, her energy reaches out to his so that he might use it not as a blade, but as a buffer, a filter to tease out a strand of the sound he hears, like a comb that seeks to straighten the strands at the very end with a soothing balm.If this does not work, her energy will align to his in a different way, expanding to capture the whole instead of zooming into minute details. She's attempting to make the jagged peaks and troughs of its signature more curved and graceful, less noise screamed as if through suffering and more soothing like a song. The energy feels impatient, wanting, old; for undoubtedly, it's been waiting for a very, very long time.
Ah. Perhaps-- she had been reading this energy wrongly. Perhaps it's only excited that he is present, finally here, wanting to become one with him, eager, and that is why it is so impacting. Realizing this, she directs him to reassure patience, calm....
Rest, too.
In the mind's eye, it might feel as if she's guiding his hands to dip into his own light before him, the one that is distinctly his, to begin to refine the integral of this power. She guides him to strands of light, to invisible strings, keys; fingers over his, she pulls him through strum, an eight count, more, his whole body dipping through a waterfall that soon diminishes to a metronome of drops of light, counting for him as she brings his hands back to attention of the sound-strings before him. Another strum, another measure passes. Whatever he composes translates to the metaphorical motion of his fingers within this meditation without thought. A song begins to form. Melodic, arching, turning, tuning, dancing back and forth in its cadence like calm waves upon a shore a night: it is a lullaby.
The power wants to give to him, but perhaps this will show it, too, what he has to bring, and she hopes it is this: let it carry his smile, his whimsy, his happiness, the struggles that he has been through, and the hope of his that pushes him through it all. Let it carry his love for his friends, his family, the world, the dawn that he adores to this power in the form of a song that can only be his.
And then-- quite like the way in which they had shared a dance before-- she lets him lead, to make this his own song, and her energy retreats back to that place upon his shoulder. This new power might want to direct; but he must guide it himself. She cannot read this signal, as it is for him to decipher. Hopefully, she'll be able to at least stabilize and focus his own so that he can take the time to do try and finish this composition... ]
no subject
When his light does begin to intertwine with hers, it is then that she understands what he means by noise, how overwhelming it is... and sad. Old, long passed but not forgotten. While she neither makes out voices nor words, she intuits the energy itself to have an intent, sentience, a will of its own, and all coming from a point upon his hand, yet a--... collective? It is difficult to tell, yet one thing is certain: this new power seems to not fight his own, but want to complete it.
She feels this noise as jumbled and harsh, and it alone causes her to wince, to gasp through parted lips as she feels the impact of the energy through him, striking her through their connection. ] Ah-- [ Her hand tightens upon his, but she remains focused. It's like staring at a distressed, vicious line upon a graph and not realizing that it's comprised of many different components that braid and integrate together, ready to weave into the final piece that is him, ready to thrive.
When he says that he's trying, her energy will feel like a touch upon his shoulder, holding him steady and remaining there. Wordlessly: You're doing good. You got this. Signal masking occurs when frequency of the sound matches the frequency of the noise generated; her own energy's pitch is softer and lighter, coming to his mind with warmth. He will be able to feel the support she attempts to give as the noise tumultuously ricochets throughout. Through him, she can feel it echo unpleasantly within her own mind not as anything distinct, but as sheer divine power. If this power were outside, it would surely make the very pebbles upon the ground quake with its booming weight.
He's attempting to placate it, to calm it, to assuage that he is there and willing to accept... She thinks this is the right way to go, instead of beating it into submission. This is going to be the more difficult route-- for the both of them-- thus in preparation:
Breathe. He has to remember to breathe as they go deeper. His heart, too, must remember to beat.
And this time, her energy reaches out to his so that he might use it not as a blade, but as a buffer, a filter to tease out a strand of the sound he hears, like a comb that seeks to straighten the strands at the very end with a soothing balm.If this does not work, her energy will align to his in a different way, expanding to capture the whole instead of zooming into minute details. She's attempting to make the jagged peaks and troughs of its signature more curved and graceful, less noise screamed as if through suffering and more soothing like a song. The energy feels impatient, wanting, old; for undoubtedly, it's been waiting for a very, very long time.
Ah. Perhaps-- she had been reading this energy wrongly. Perhaps it's only excited that he is present, finally here, wanting to become one with him, eager, and that is why it is so impacting. Realizing this, she directs him to reassure patience, calm....
Rest, too.
In the mind's eye, it might feel as if she's guiding his hands to dip into his own light before him, the one that is distinctly his, to begin to refine the integral of this power. She guides him to strands of light, to invisible strings, keys; fingers over his, she pulls him through strum, an eight count, more, his whole body dipping through a waterfall that soon diminishes to a metronome of drops of light, counting for him as she brings his hands back to attention of the sound-strings before him. Another strum, another measure passes. Whatever he composes translates to the metaphorical motion of his fingers within this meditation without thought. A song begins to form. Melodic, arching, turning, tuning, dancing back and forth in its cadence like calm waves upon a shore a night: it is a lullaby.
The power wants to give to him, but perhaps this will show it, too, what he has to bring, and she hopes it is this: let it carry his smile, his whimsy, his happiness, the struggles that he has been through, and the hope of his that pushes him through it all. Let it carry his love for his friends, his family, the world, the dawn that he adores to this power in the form of a song that can only be his.
And then-- quite like the way in which they had shared a dance before-- she lets him lead, to make this his own song, and her energy retreats back to that place upon his shoulder. This new power might want to direct; but he must guide it himself. She cannot read this signal, as it is for him to decipher. Hopefully, she'll be able to at least stabilize and focus his own so that he can take the time to do try and finish this composition... ]