[seraphim are basically gods, they live to be dramatic, shush
He offers up a quiet "hmm" in agreement, closing his eyes to focus properly. Snow is harder to summon than water, since he doesn't really do it as often, and even more rarely in great quantities. But he can remember the hotter days in Elysia with Sorey, when they were small and he was still learning seraphic artes- Sorey begging him to make snow for them to play in, fumbling through the chants until he got it right, laughing as they flung snowballs at each other until the sun melted it all away. He's stronger now than he was then; he just has to hold it, somehow.
He forms the arte within himself, chanting the words under his breath, until finally he releases it, slamming the staff's end against the ground. Cold air bursts outward, blue-and-white energy twisting through the air and becoming miniature flurries as they spread and expand from his staff. The light coats the floor in waves, creating at first a thin dusting of snow, then more, until it's thick enough to reach their ankles from corner to corner. The light then creeps up the walls to the ceiling, and snow begins to fall as if from a cloud.
Once the arte's fully transferred to the air, Mikleo exhales, his breath visible in the now-chilly room, and leans back, feeling a bit drained. That was intense.]
Re: action
He offers up a quiet "hmm" in agreement, closing his eyes to focus properly. Snow is harder to summon than water, since he doesn't really do it as often, and even more rarely in great quantities. But he can remember the hotter days in Elysia with Sorey, when they were small and he was still learning seraphic artes- Sorey begging him to make snow for them to play in, fumbling through the chants until he got it right, laughing as they flung snowballs at each other until the sun melted it all away. He's stronger now than he was then; he just has to hold it, somehow.
He forms the arte within himself, chanting the words under his breath, until finally he releases it, slamming the staff's end against the ground. Cold air bursts outward, blue-and-white energy twisting through the air and becoming miniature flurries as they spread and expand from his staff. The light coats the floor in waves, creating at first a thin dusting of snow, then more, until it's thick enough to reach their ankles from corner to corner. The light then creeps up the walls to the ceiling, and snow begins to fall as if from a cloud.
Once the arte's fully transferred to the air, Mikleo exhales, his breath visible in the now-chilly room, and leans back, feeling a bit drained. That was intense.]
How's that?