"Master, you're still doing it wrong!" Tutu scolded, having explained to me how to control my fire a bunch of times. The white tiger's fur is curling up, as is his growing frustration.
We're now out on the field, practicing my fire so I don't burn anything else in the manor by simply breathing cold air. Bob is also here, somewhere on the side, using my fire to his advantage to roast some chicken for lunch.
"Bob, can you roast your chicken elsewhere?" I asked politely, unlike the rude raging growls of my stomach. The smell is too distracting for me to focus on my magic—well, perhaps an excuse, but it is also the truth.
"My Lady, I'd love to, but it's such a waste not to use all this fire over here," Bob said, motioning to the small group of fire on the ground. The heat had melted the last of the winter's snow, but it was still kept under control by Tutu's help. Tutu has made a magic barrier around the field, and Bob has, unmagically, forced his way in.
