It has been a suspiciously quiet, peaceful few years in Beqanna.
Not that quiet or peaceful is inherently suspicious, nor that it was truly quiet or peaceful by any sane being’s standards; but this world, like many worlds, is marked by its tumultuous and heartbreaking nature. Many a creature found love and the eventual suffering that comes with love within the borders of Beqanna. The legends of old, though—they only seem to be growing . . . older. No wistful, gut-wrenching stories come to replace them.
Margot, in all her self-proclaimed wisdom, has recently tasked herself with replacing the stories—even if (and one should not even dare suggest this to her face) those tales she concocts are much more than stretching the truth.
They started as rumors. Harmless, meandering whispers that she pressed carelessly into the ears of strangers and acquaintances alike. Margot, as fickle as a cherry blossom petal on a spring breeze, grew bored quickly of just the rumors. Soon, she whisked strangers into grand tales; and could one even blame her when she wove the very love residing in those strangers’ hearts into her tales? Could you really fault her when her words swept into magic? When her magic became reality?
A pink petal in the wind: delicate, beautiful, whimsical. Such whims carried Margot into the delicate strands of hair of lovers, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends. Caught helplessly, she simply could not escape. How could she, when their love held her rapt so?
Such love does not exist without heartbreak. As Beqanna does not exist without chaos.
Love drives her careless floating into a driven path. Love—her first love. The reflection of the red canyons in her mother’s eyes when she spoke, the dust caked to her father’s legs: Pangea.
Pride and new, true stories spin in her gaze as she peers into the desolate land.
