the glass candles are burning; any

[Wayra]

Wayra was still young enough that her reflection could be called pouting, or sulking. Her body was still young, all legs and eyes. But, there was something about those eyes, something that made her look older, a little weary, and hard as stone. She could a remember a time when she had been soft, when her heart had been a delicate, flickering thing easily coaxed to a frenzy. 


That time was over, and Wayra wasn’t sad to see it go. She had bigger things to worry about, bigger concerns should she decide to let them keep her up at night. 

There was little that kept her up, however. On the rare occasion that she did sleep, she did not dream. That habit had been quickly broken in Carnage’s lair. Dreaming was worse than reality, and the black oblivion was her only escape. It was precious, and still she loved to fall asleep and dream of nothing at all. That was rare however, her sleep was undisturbed but infrequent, and Wayra had made her peace with the waking hours.

This was her life now, and there was nothing to be done about it.

A voice broke her revere, and Wayra didn’t startle. She did turn, however, a prim, perfectly sculpted look of inquiry on her face. Sometimes, Wayra imagined that she was just another one of her creations, that she was just a living, moving ice sculpture. 

“It is, isn’t it?” She looked at her snowstorm, and for perhaps that first time a look of mild satisfaction crossed her face. If she could’t live, if she couldn’t feel, at least she could create. Wayra wasn’t sure if her powers had been Carnage’s way of apologizing, or his way of reminding her, his way of making sure he never forgot him and his lair.

Wayra didn’t care either way. She felt a kinship with the ice, and that was more then she felt about anything else.

This stallion, however, was interesting. That was more than could be said for most. He was the most charming shade of purple, lavender really. Wayra smiled, ever so gently. She would have been perfectly charmed, once upon a time. That little smile stayed in place, and it made her look like someone had told her a terrific, dirty joke that nobody else could hear. 


“They don’t call me much of anything anymore. But, Kirin, you can call me Wayra.” Her answer was a bit of a run around. It was, however, true. She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her name, the last time she had said it out loud. She liked the sound of it, and liked the sound of his. There was something to be said, for a good name.