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  • Beqanna


    Jamie -- Year 213


    “"I don’t know how to do this,” she says. What she actually means is I’m sorry, but she doesn’t know how to apologize either." --Titanya, written by Mirage

    [private]  like wild fire, it starts in my chest; laura pony
    Her first shift happens suddenly and without warning - though perhaps had she known her grandmother, she might’ve known the kind of magic that had nestled inside her chest her whole childhood. But she had remained unaware and unsuspicious, and it had slept inside her, growing in strength and prowess until this very moment. She had nurtured unknowingly, fed it with her wild temper and the fire in her heart, and now that this same heart beat like a drum about to burst, something else inside her burst too.

    It felt like being torn apart, like rupturing and fissuring and coming entirely undone. It felt like she would die from the pain, and if not from the pain then surely from the fire roaring to life inside her chest. She screams, and the beast she had been running from is entirely forgotten as she writhes and wrestles with this new enemy already buried inside her.

    But this is not death, and the pain comes only from trying so hard to fight her own nature, to fight truths she hadn’t known existed. And when she is suddenly changed, suddenly different, and there are giant burning wings that unfold from her avian body to tear at the dark she feels as though she’s been thrown out from within herself.

    None of this feels like her, none of this feels right.
    Firena is not this body she is now trapped inside, not a phoenix burning brightly in the false night.

    Yet when she screams, the bird does too. When she fights and thrashes, there are giant wings that lift awkwardly on either side of her, a tail that hisses and spits and smolders behind her with the intensity of the fear and desperation burning through her chest. Run. Her mind screams, and when she tries to do so she is like a burning comet of fire and feather crashing through the trees until everything she touches is a wild conflagration.

    When she finally stops it is out of senseless exhaustion and she collapses like a dead thing in the grass, her fire all burned out and the forest smoldering around her. She can smell smoke in the air and on her skin, and when she finally pulls herself up numbly and rises, it is on four legs and in a body that feels like home. She blinks, and as that burning red-gold gaze travels over a world still on fire at its edge, she cannot help but wonder if this is hell.


    like wildfire, it starts in my chest

    The Monsters mess with her immortality please!
    firena nothing happens to your immortality

    that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

    Firion does not sleep often anymore—finds that he does not need it. There are times when he does, if only to hunt through a dreamworld that now opens to him (lush and expansive and too vast to easily find that which he hunts), but he does not visit it for long. It is too great of a relief to live in the night as he does now. Too great of a relief to be able to travel through it wholly as himself. He does not need to succumb to the curse any longer. He does not need to lose himself as the sun sets. He does not perish.

    Instead he becomes more during those evening hours.

    His magic swells, rising like a tide in him, and his golden eyes gleam with the untapped power.

    He consider it a great joke—and the fact that he now glows a faint gold during those dark hours does not lose its humor on him either. At least he has that, he thinks. At least he is able to cling to his humor even as the world gives him this gift and then molds it as a weapon, taking his curse and reshaping it.

    His laugh is bitter and under his breath as he continues, moving through shadows half as himself and half as darkness himself, his companion trailing after him—its thoughts bubbling against his conscious. For now, he ignores it, only pausing when he sees the comet streak across the sky. Curious, he pauses, angling his head and narrowing his eyes before opening a portal of that same darkness and stepping through.

    When he comes out the other side, he shakes the dust from his shoulders and straightens.

    His gaze sweeps around him before he settles on the copper and gold girl who strides forward, the smell of ash lingering. “You’re still on fire,” he deadpans, nodding a heavy-jawed head toward her tail.

    And then he grins, wolfish in the moonlight.

    so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried


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