The sun shines sweetly on the high elf; there is no smell like that of sunshine and no song as fine as the ever-changing tinkling of the nearby river, and percussion like brushes on a drum, the sound of the whispering leaves. Indeed, summer has a taste beyond smell, the pollen in the air like salt on roasted vegetables.
Her teacher is stealthy; aside from being an elf, he is ancient and a lifelong student of the art of combat. However, there is only so much he can control, and his penchant for fragrant lotion and fine cloth is his downfall. She knows his location immediately; however, his method of attack remains to be seen. The wind is slight, so the ruffling of his robes means he is moving at a high speed, yet his direction is round-about her. Erissa stands in silence and hears his sharp intake of breath, the same he always makes when focusing; the bolt will come shortly, and she hears the crackling energy fly by hear ear as she spins away from it. His smell has moved; no longer is he downwind, nor does the breeze betray him with a ruffle of cloth. The young elf stands in silence once again; in moments she hears what she needs, a gentle grunt of exertion as her teacher leaps and propels himself telekenetically at her. The smell of lotion, the rustling of cloth, the beating of his heart and laboring of his breath, he has committed himself in the trajectory, and Erissa drops to her knees, focusing her own telekenetic energy and adding it to his, causing him to overshoot his landing. He rolls on the ground and she can smell the bruised grass; he has stained his robes with green. Erissa tries to remember the color green.
“That is all,” Troyas says to her. “Your lesson is complete. Heal yourself, Dear One.” Troyas smiles and rings her shoulders with a long, graceful arm. Erissa nods, focusing her power, and in several moments the light and beauty of the world floods in on her. A single tear slips down her cheek.