dingo-paws

Theo doesn’t even have to think to exercise his power anymore. He plucks small rocks off of the ground and juggles them absently above his head. His sharp eyes catalogue their movements with satisfaction, noting that the larger one is more sluggish than the smaller. He can juggle four of them at once before his attention wavers, too split up to continue. He’s slow with them when he adds more as well, mind catching on itself and leading the rocks to stutter in his mental grasp like they’re glitching. It’s strange as well. He can lift four small pebbles, or four larger rocks weighing as much as several pounds, but only four at a time. He has some hypothesis regarding mental ability and multi-tasking. If he trains long enough, will he be able to move five? Six? More? He absently weaves the rocks between his feet as he walks, and it’s only a little more effortful to make sure that they’re in rhythm with his gait so that they don’t hit his feet, before turning and hurling them as

These days, when Theo dreams he dreams of ice. It’s always the same dream. He’s in a maze. He can see his reflection in every single wall, on and on into infinity. Theo upon Theo, cast out and replicated so that for every step he takes, a thousand mirror images follow his steps. He isn’t afraid, in the dream. He probably should be, but he isn’t. It’s beautiful, after all. He has seen so many horrible, terrible, ugly things in these trials. But he’s also seen such beauty, such incredible sights and beautiful new creatures. This is like that, the ice feels like home. Feels good, safe. Walled in with no one but himself for company. His breath fogs in the air, but he doesn’t feel cold. One of the perks of being a purple soul, he always supposes. He tries to remember - did his father get cold? Did Amos ever shiver and complain and cuddle up to his partners as they laughed and warmed his chilly paws? Theo doesn’t remember. Even though he knows he has to find his way to the center of