[open] oh, this my weapon, this my loam; any

[irisa]

and the walls kept tumbling down
in this city that we love

She is grown, now, but there remains something childish about her. She was dream-grown, see, raised in a strange fantastical world, a dream made flesh.
(What it had cost her mother, she doesn’t know, and will likely never learn – this is no doubt a secret Heartworm will take to her grave.)
She is more acquainted with reality, now, knows the world for what it is, but the world has not yet robbed her of a certain whimsy.
She looks the part of whimsy, white with a rainbow sheen, wings fluttering at her sides. Like something dreamed.

She has been absent from Beqanna for longer than she’s realized, when she returns it’s changed, sickened, but this does not make her hesitate.
(There are dreams, sometimes, of her in another world, her first iteration. There was something like a plague there, too. She remembers a castle crumbling, birds falling from the sky. But they’re just dreams, is all.)

She sees the boy, or perhaps he sees her – their eyes meet, and then her rove over his wine-dark body, the wings at his sides. Her own wings flutter as she pulls them in closer, moving towards him. She does not know if he wants company, but there is a smile bright on her face, and she nods hello as she nears him.
“Hello,” she says, “my name is Irisia.”

Irisa

tarnished x heartworm