Hvittraak broke the cloud line in a flourishing spin, his wingtips fluttering like a cape caught by a gust of wind. He was a lord of the clouds, and the sky his aethereal domain. The adrenaline of flight paired with the ease of muscle memory allowed their ascent a certain level of complacency, but Hvit was in the mood for a sudden display of skill. He was very vain, after all.
The anticipation of the drop rushed through him, and in the apex of the climb time seemed to slow. His wings became tense, his eyes widened and pupils dilated before sliding into a razor thin slit. His tail straightened then curled inward slightly and even his claws flexed unconsciously. Then it hit, and gravity took him. He began to fall, but three voracious flaps sped their descent to much faster than terminal velocity. He angled his wings as to catch the air and they started spiralling. A corkscrew of dull white and brilliant hues glittered as it sped towards the earth at a breakneck pace.
Surely, if they hit the ground, they would break far more than their necks. But Hvit wouldn't let that occur, and at a lofty three thousand feet, he abruptly flared his wings wide, catching his (relatively) small body in their draft. Stopped as though by a godly pinch, they hung for a second in the air, unmoving. Then they began to fall slowly, progressing into a lazy glide. Hvit would hit the ground, yes, but in a few minutes rather than seconds.