Beqanna - River

feel the night slip in

Tue, 20 Oct 2026 07:22:35 -0400

LITOTES

The weight of restlessness sits upon the chests of many - though very few allow that low vibration to drive themselves to the depths of evil. What of restlessness is evil? Perhaps it is the simple fact that those that live with such perpetual drive might never sit still, always drifting, drifting . . . wakes and wakes of confusion and chaos left behind them. Those that allow themselves to fall into such states of selfishness are often the most loved, most sought after, admired, even uplifted. Their waxing and waning whimsy charms the crowns off of kings and turns the might of men into the chittering of mice. Masters of masks, those restless few.

Perhaps he is not evil, the shadow wielder. Certainly he has harbored evil, even given it life in the forms of sons and daughters. No . . . no, he is not evil. Lacking of discipline, maybe. Maybe lost to the weight of his own quiet sadness. Always burying something . . . something he cannot quite name - always finding new depths within him.

An openness once existed in Litotes. He remembers who that man was, he thinks. At least he remembers in the way one remembers a version of themselves they both long for and regard with derision. So that is to say, he hardly remembers at all. He tries to dredge that young man up now. The hardly magic-touched lion he had once been used to swell with such hope and life he would often come to bursting. It is that bursting that led him astray; and it is that bursting that keeps him from remembering his once snowflake-less reflection. He had to find a different version of himself through the years - loss of love, imprisonment, children, a crown, a wasteland -

Well, now he is simply lost.

And that rushing of the autumn-cold river before him is not nearly as loud as the desperate river constantly raging through him.

and let the cool air in, feel the night slip in
as it softly glides across your back
and i hope you leave right before the sun comes up
so i can watch it alone

if i could let myself be seen; a sarah pony

Mon, 19 Oct 2026 21:02:50 -0400

It is fall now, and the cooler temperatures have stolen all the green from the trees that tower above him. He likes it when the seasons change, when the stagnance of time shifts to make old things seem new again. He likes the reds and golds and brilliant burnt oranges, shades that seem borrowed from gemstones and sunsets. There is a part of him that wonders if there is something innately inside him that notices more of the world in this way simply because of who his mother is - because of her bark and her flowers and the way spring unfurls from her very being.

Quake is not like her, but he is not unlike her either. While he is almost wholly flesh, all soft and gray and dappled warmth, there is evidence of his lineage in the wooden wings at his shoulders and the branch-like horns atop his head. The horns bend backwards and they aren’t smooth like willow branches, the wood is dark and gnarled, twisted and with a handful of smaller leafless shoots and thorns that make the edges lack uniformity. The wings are perhaps even stranger with their thick branches where bone should be, and a plait of dense ivy leaves in the space where feathers should be. There are even white and periwinkle flowers that bloom from the smaller ivy vines that wind in and out of his mane and tail.

Sometimes he forgets how much of his mother exists within, how much of her physicality, at least, because he feels such a far cry from the stories of her he’d heard as a boy. Of a girl full of stubbornness and fierce love, of something who had fought for everything she loved and everything she had decided was hers to keep.

In that way, Quake feels only a gaping emptiness. It is not quite a chasm, not quite a depth he cannot climb out of, but every day that passes the same as the last makes that emptiness grow just a little bigger.

Perhaps it is this nameless restlessness that pushes him from the comfort of the forest where his family has always lived and brings him instead to the river at the outermost boundary. There is a shade of quiet surprise in the pale glass green of his eyes as he leans down to peer at his reflection in a part of the river where the water seems almost lazy. He traces the curve of his horns, the sage of the leafy wings relaxed at his sides. He looks at his eyes again and does not linger long enough to name that deep ache he finds in their reflection. He tracks the grey of his skin like storm clouds and fog, smiles the echo of something like fondness at the iridescent blue dapples the same stolen blue as his father. It is a wonder he can be so like, and unlike, both of them.

He watches as the wind catches in his mane, pulling loose one of the white flowers from the pewter strands only to drop it into the gentle current of the water below. Mindlessly, he follows at the edge of the bank to watch its passage right up until it swirls into a wedged, upright branch half buried in the waterbed and protruding up past the surface. He stops to watch the flower spin and spin, caught in the obstruction, in the gravity of something so small and yet still so much larger than itself. “Well, that makes two of us.” He says aloud to himself, and there is true warmth, if not an ounce of self-deprecation, in the laugh that falls unbidden from his lips and alights in the pale green of his forest eyes.

QUAKE

i leaned in and let it hurt

we can finally rest in pieces in the eye of the storm

Sun, 04 Oct 2026 09:54:23 -0400

damnata

CRACK. Lightning struck and the earth shuddered in protest. Before she had time to process what had happened fire was roaring through the fall dried meadow. They ran for the trees. There was a river on the other side of the grove. If they could just make it there they'd be safe. Her heart was pounding as she searched for her family, for him. A cry escaped her throat in response to the confused and pained shrieks. The smoke was so thick and the air scorched her lungs as she rushed for the trees. The ground thundered with hooves as her loved ones also sought safety. She squinted against the burning air, her dark eyes settling on him just against the treeline.

NATA! He called. She cried out I'm coming! in response, the words cracking in her dried and burning throat.

But it was futile. No matter how hard she pushed her legs, how hard her heart pounded to push blood through her muscles, she was not faster than an angry, wind fueled fire. She could feel the flames licking at her heels, her tail alight. She cried out as she reached her nose for him. Why hadn't he run? His eyes were dim and sad. She could see the flames reflecting. "No. No no no." She croaked and coughed. He pressed his chest against her, wrapping his neck over hers.

They were swallowed by fire. And then there was nothing.

She shuddered and gasped. Her lungs filled with smoke and ash, burning but breathing. Her eyes flickered open. The world around her was black and gray. Charred earth with smoke rising and ash drifting on the breeze. Embers popped and cracked as the heat tried to hold on. She stumbled to get her legs beneath her and let out an ashy sob as she saw him. There was little left his charred body. Burnt flesh and bones but still unmistakably him. Her nose lowered and the scent of scorched flesh made her recoil. She called out, but nobody called back. The only response was the hot wind and popping of embers.

She walked to the area where the tree grove had once been. Nothing remained but burnt stumps and smoldering brush. Her legs carried her across the burning earth, somehow not burning herself. Her home was reduced to nothing but a burnt hellscape. Her hope that someone had made it to the water was crushed as she neared the far edge of the grove, only to discover more charred remains of those she loved. Her body shuddered with silent sobs. She closed her eyes and shook her head before continuing towards the water.

The river meandered quietly gurgling along the land. The water was somewhat murky from the gathering ash and debris, but clear enough for her to see her reflection. She inhaled sharply at the sight.

She expected to see burnt flesh and hair, wounds she wouldn't survive. Instead an ashen creature stared back at her with glowing ember eyes. She blinked, and the creature blinked. It wasn't a creature at all. It was her.

The fire had destroyed everything and everyone she loved but spared her. Transformed her. Her black hide was now a charcoal ashen color with fissures of glowing orange and red embers. Her mane and tail drifted against the air like ash and smoke. Black wings erupted from her back, the ends feathering into ash and smoke on the breeze. She looked down at her legs to find soot drifting from her body and smoke swirling against her legs.

Maybe it was his love that saved her life. Maybe she was dead and this was a different realm entirely. She stared back at her reflection again. Why would she have survived when the rest suffered such a horrendous fate?

Damnata stepped back away from the water and walked along the banks. She walked and walked. Days and nights passing by, her mind not here nor there, she just walked. When she finally stopped she realized the earth was alive again. The grass was green and flowing, flowers bright. The trees rustled with green leaves.

Her head and wings drooped while ash and soot drifted around her. Exhaustion hit her like a train after days spent wandering in a shocked daze and she closed her eyes. The smell of smoke clung to her as it wafted from her and swirled in her wake. She thought she heard steps in the grass, but could not will herself to raise her head and look. Perhaps it was the grim reaper coming for her.

as we dance around a tombstone and we crash into the sun

Written on my phone so dont judge any spelling or whatever ?

every single night --

Tue, 29 Sep 2026 22:07:26 -0400

Kneel

every single night

There are certain things that shape a person, and you’ll find all of the wrong ones here.

Kneel was first and foremost arrogant. Disgustingly so, it was as if he emerged from the womb with prospect and accomplishment. Importance.

To his own people, anyways. Though they claimed to know him, to love him, he found that they realistically could never know him at all.

Kneel watches the river like he’s owed something from it, glaring at rivulets of aqua until he gives a dramatic sigh and dips his head to drink. Lavender tendrils of his mane spilling over his face like an intricate curtain, swirling past cattails until they tangled themselves within the threads of cerulean drink, and though his Father would have hated this—Kneel finds himself indifferent to the wet. At least it was clean.

Once his thirst had been sated, Kneel lifted his confetti-painted head to stare at a rippled reflection, watching his visage stretch, pull away from him, before it finally crushed its way back towards the bank. The river watches him more than he watches himself, yet the practice of looking upon his own face was something he never truly understood. Kirin made a point of it— Kneel was still trying to figure out what the point was. If he should feel something about the distortion of his features, the importance was lost, exchanged with frustration at the way the breeze sent his tail colliding with his wet mane. The ensuing knot rightly pissed him off.

”Fucking wind,” he snarled, a slight expansion of his wings sends a message of ‘stop annoying me’, without the words ever leaving his lips. Making himself bigger as though the wind was his next opponent and should be dealt with accordingly. A lightly feathered leg stomps against the ground, nostrils flared wide, and once more he was back to the issue of his hair tightly bound at the most unfortunate angles.

i pray that my wings are sittin' right

HTML by Call

“what do you fear, lady?' he asked. 'a cage,' she said.”; sam

Sat, 26 Sep 2026 20:04:24 -0400

BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE

Spring cleanses away the death of winter's breath; the gentle urgency of green grass pushing through frost; she walks toward the sound of tired river water. The soft hue of salmon pink seems harsh against the dull, murky greys and browns, but Ygritte is somber and purposeful in her walk. Her throat is tight and itches with the desire for a drink, the need making her throat hitched and jagged. She doesn't wonder why she has returned; she simply exists.

Ygritte presses her hoof against the still brittle frozen river edge to splinter, admiring the spider's web only momentarily before breaking it; she pauses, then plunges her painted lips into the icy water, a frozen kiss as she drinks. Beqanna is as it always was, a home of wayward souls, grappling for a foothold and for honor while others look for peace or even revenge. None of it pertains really to the cinnamon mare as she repositions her wings so they lay neatly along her spine. The water is cold, hurting her raw throat until it numbs, but the pain is a reminder that she isn't dreaming anymore. She is real.

Only when she has had her fill, Ygritte lifts her head, scanning with her good eye to see there are others here. Despite the early spring, the begonias in her other eye socket bloom vividly with a ferocity of life that no winter could cripple. Beqanna breathes with life, as it could never truly die, and perhaps, she mused wistfully to herself, that is why she too will go on living.

Ygritte.

Short, but I appreciate you helping me dust off the laptop

[Trigger Warning] A Hurdle In Life

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 19:30:45 -0400

TW: Ruth isn't feeling overly positive right now so a brief thought of death does pop up. Just a warning

She lay beneath the oversized oak tree that dominated the center of the forest. Her head rested against the damp turf as the awakening sun tried to push through twigs and sprouting leaves. Cool air rose from the ground.

Her breath lifted and fell, shallow and forced.

There had been few times in her life when she had been limited to positive thinking. Maybe once, when her mother left. Most days had been easy enough, only the occasional mouthful a little too big. But lying beneath the dew-soaked canopy of the infamous oak, she felt almost hopeless.

Death won't be so bad. It might actually be easier.

In the deepest part of the forest, during the darkest hour of the night, Ruth had come upon a mountain lion. Malnourished, her options had been limited: fight or fall. Winter had been hard on the gold mare, and her will to survive had rusted like cheap metal—painfully delicate, a stark contrast to her bold lineage.

Graciously, she had fought just hard enough to become unappetizing. But that didn't leave her uninjured.

It didn't leave her safe.

Blood had crusted around the wounds that marred her left hindquarter and flank. Pain had seeped deep into muscle and bone, gnawing at her with every breath. A bird swooped overhead, and she wondered how quickly vultures found their dead. Were they already counting her minutes?

Heart pounding, she stretched her front legs forward and fought the blur threatening to drag her back under, snorting through the crippling pain. Ruth was delicate, but a fire still burned deep within her, and her only choice was to feed the flame.

Who will find me here? Will anybody help me?

Saltwater tongues are calling me; any

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 14:38:40 -0400

starboard

make it pretty, but train it to kill

The Gods were not content to just make her attractive.

No, her creation had been a coming-together of their great Godly minds. They had plotted and schemed, talked and dreamed until finally, she was created.

She was not just attractive. She was beautiful, so beautiful it was nearly sinful. She moved in a way ill-befitting of her age, as if she was acutely aware of her soft curves and swaying hips. The smile on her face spoke of sweat-slicked skin devoured in the shadows. Even the reptilian slit of her bright eyes was alluring in a dangerous sort of way. To top it all off, they had added wings made of water. A small deception, something soft and demure to distract from the otherwise predatory traits.

Make it pretty, but train it to kill. That had been their mantra. And they had checked every box of those requirements.

The river calls to her like a siren. She slinks along the bank, her slit-pupiled gaze looking across the high flowing water. With a small smile she closes in on the river bank, sighing contentedly as the flow laps at her ankles. The warm spring rain falls quietly, adding to the swollen river. It does not cause her alarm, and she does not make any attempt to leave the rivers edge. Instead, she stands contentedly, the watery sunshine glimmering against her wings and scales. Even the venomous fangs in her mouth have stopped aching, lulled by the quiet power of the river.

To see her here, a quiet mare wrapped in sunshine and ethereal beauty, it would be easy to let ones guard down.

A mistake one should, and will, only make once.

Word count: 280

Chaos and Whimsy; Tumult

Mon, 08 Dec 2025 14:27:31 -0500

She moves along the riverbank, silver hooves pressing into soft mud that smells faintly of rain and stone. The current whispers at her ankles, cold and deliberate, brushing against her skin in tiny, teasing pulses. Her patchwork coat glimmers faintly in the pale light, neon streaks of her mane catching every ripple of sunlight like sparks caught in fog. Her antennae quiver at each faint shift in the air, her elongated ears tilting toward every subtle splash, every soft rustle of reeds.

“Tumult?” The name slips softly from her lips, carried over the water like a secret she hopes he will catch. Lilies bloom slowly from her chest, petals trembling as though sensing her intent. Green foxfire curls around her legs, twirling with each careful step. The butterfly wings on her hindquarters shimmer faintly, fluttering with the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Her mind flickers back to the last time she had seen him, the weight of his presence, the pull she had not understood, the quiet tension that had made her chest ache in ways she could not name. She lets the memory brush against her now, a reminder of why she moves forward, why she calls.

The reeds shift in the gentle breeze, the river hissing against stones, and her antennae twitch at the faintest vibration. The pull in her chest strengthens, subtle but insistent, like a ship caught in a sudden storm, tugged toward something it cannot resist. Her heart beats steady, a warm coil of anticipation that dances beneath her skin, winding around the lilies, the foxfire, and the quiet hum of magic she has learned to trust.

This is bleh lol

with those bittersweet melodies

Thu, 20 Nov 2025 00:02:57 -0500

Tavani

Somewhere in the last few years, Beqanna had started to feel like home instead of a place Tavani was stuck. Her memories of where she had been before had a haze to them, turning many of them rosier than they really were.

There were still new things to discover, and it felt like almost every day she found something new, but these discoveries were now surprising and interesting instead of frightening.

She even has a few favourite spots.

It's a little early in the year for a swim but Tavani can't help it. There's enough of her Baltian mother in her that the chill doesn't get to her easily. So she finds her way to the widest, slowest part of the river, and eases in — the spring sunshine glittering on the surface. Her black wings fold behind her like a swan's, crowning her in dark feathers, while the bits of feather and skin and hair that come in contact with the water swirl with shades of blue and purple.

Her black-and-sky eyes are on the shore once she starts swimming leisurely, watching the comings and goings of whoever happens to pass by. Now that her anxieties over existing in this place have faded, there's more room for her to be aware of just how lonely she is. There's a sad sort of enjoyment out of watching others and imagining that they don't carry that same weight.

there’s a fire under the altar

Thu, 30 Oct 2025 03:03:53 -0400

Enough vanity exists in Tersias’ heart that he does not like to be seen by anyone new during the daylight. It’s one thing for his family to see the speckled scars scattered across his coat and face, and another thing entirely to consider approaching anyone who wasn’t used to them. Someone who might ask — and he has no practice at all trying to explain something that had been a part of him since birth. The scars were absolutely a piece of who he is the demon in Tersias’ heart truly feels whole under the moonlight.

When scar turns to a shimmering gold.

That’s the Tersias he is comfortable sharing with the world.

So that is when he wanders.

The moon tonight is a slender crescent, ready to disappear tomorrow before growing once more, but it is enough to light Tersias up with a soft golden glow. It adds colour to his shadowy presence, from the obsidian horns that crown him down to the black cloven hooves that leave strange prints behind him in the soft autumn mud.

There’s an ease to his gait under the moon, a sense of calm. There is so much that he doesn’t yet know about what he is capable of, just the tricks he’s learned when playing with his siblings or exploring, but something about this night tells him there is so much more to come. That his life in this peaceful Beqanna may change at any point.

And those thoughts bring a smile to his cold, golden eyes.

Open to any!

rivers and roads - fireheart

Sat, 25 Oct 2025 20:43:30 -0400

…and when dawn came, the ooze was gone.

The thick, ominous sludge that had swallowed the crystalline river — that winding lifeline through Beqanna’s fields and forests, had vanished. The sea had devoured it, displaced it, or perhaps carried it away to some darker place along its course. Whatever force had overtaken the water and them both was now only memory. The other girl — the one who had stood beside her in eerie stillness, trapped in the same green horror as it consumed them — was gone as well. Only Claudia remained, dripping riverlight and silence. Tybalt emerges from the brush, unharmed but bristling, wings half-flared in alarm. His confusion stirs something protective in her; she lowers her head to him, voice soft and melodic.

“I am fine,” she purrs, pressing her muzzle to his cheek.
“I do not know what that was, but… it may have tweaked something in my magic.” Her words are half to him, half to herself — a musing spoken into the morning air as the little dragon circles her, scales flashing blue beneath the newborn sun.

"Well, you don’t look any different,” Tybalt remarks after a moment, his tone caught between teasing and unease. Claudia exhales slowly, her breath curling like smoke in the cool dawn. The light catches her mane, molten gold against the wet sheen of her coat, and glitters across the now-clear river. It is as if nothing had ever happened. Yet the world feels thicker, heavier. The silence hums with something unseen. She steps into the shallows, the water whispering around her ankles. The river hums softly, like a creature dreaming beneath its skin. Tybalt hovers close above her, the rhythm of his wings steady and low.

“Let’s move,” she murmurs, glancing upstream — though her gaze drifts, half wary, half entranced, toward where the ooze had once crawled. Together they slip into the fog-damp woods, the scent of moss and brine heavy in the air. Behind them, the river runs clear again…

<3

climbed up on your cross, colby

Thu, 23 Oct 2025 21:10:51 -0400

bael

Ask him how much time has passed and he will tell you that none has passed at all.
He will tell you neither ice nor death know time.
And, because he is a monster, he does not either.

How meaningless the changing of the seasons, the passing of days.
Born an ugly thing, it is hard to tell that he has aged at all now that he’s an adult.
Nothing about him changes these days, Bael. Except that now he can touch the surface of a pool and watch as the whole thing freezes. Sometimes he will wait for some poor, unwitting creature to wade into the depths before he administers his kiss just to watch it writhe and squirm. The darkness in him is ancient and depthless.

The darkness in him is hungry.

He watches now as the ice splinters outward away from him, watches as the vegetation wilts and freezes. It has always been in his nature to destroy, understand. The first thing he brought to ruin was his voice when his mother, horrified by the ugly thing she had birthed, froze him in place with her own ropes of ice. He had screamed for her, frantic and starving, and she had left him there. The ice had softened more and more the further she got from him, until he could shake free of it. But she was already gone, Camellia, lost to him.

So now it is gravel, strangely stilted by the unnaturally beaked mouth. And only the first of many things he has wrecked.

Because he knows all about hunger.
He roams now, something wicked unleashed on the world more than something birthed into it, though there are much wickeder things here.

And he comes upon the river in his roaming and is just about to press his mouth into the water when he hears something, though he cannot identify the sound or its source. So he just pauses there, hovering above the river’s writhing surface, and listens.

( they won’t fix ya, they ain’t with ya )
( they won’t muzzle the mouth that just bit ya )

look how they shine for you [any]

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 16:02:49 -0400

She watches in awe, and terror, as the ooze replacing the river climbs from the banks. Her legs won't move beneath her as she tries to step back away from the green creeping closer, closer, closer. It touches her hooves and her muscles tense, her instincts telling her move back, run Starbry. Every piece of her being demands her legs move - but she is stuck. The ooze seeps up and over her hooves, slithering gently over her blue hide and sending a shiver through her body. The wisps in her mind reach desperately for the mind of the mare next to her but she can't seem to direct them and suddenly she realizes that she is alone. This stranger won't - can't - save her. Her yearning for company had brought her here to die. Her brown doe eyes close tightly in fear.

Her racing heart is sinking in her chest as she realizes this is going to be it. Is it going to be painful? To die? She has no one to remember her. There is no one that will come looking for her as creatures dine on her corpse, insects clean her bones, and she turns to dust. Nobody will mourn her. Dying as she was born - nothing. It feels like a sob tries to escape her chest but is silenced in her throat.

It feels like hours have passed as the panic consumed her, despite it only being moments. She opens her eyes to take one last look at the world around her. She needs to see the stars. Death may come for her, but the glittering sky will comfort her like a soothing blanket as it had all of these years. Perhaps that's where she will go. Maybe she was nothing on earth, but in death she can become a glittering star to help light the night. And perhaps another will find comfort in the stars, in her.

But when she opens her tear-stricken eyes, still facing the ooze that she was certain would be making its way up her legs to consume her - it's retreating. The feeling of bone chilling dread begins to leave her body. She is still shaking, trembling. Her breaths come in shallow waves as she watches the ooze float down the river, away, towards the vast expanse of the ocean. Something feels different, like something settling into her bones, but she's alive. Starbry then looked up at the sky. She needed to be sure that the stars were still there, and they were. She could count on them to always be there.

A sigh of relief left her and suddenly she felt so heavy. She wasn't going to die tonight, not yet anyways. The mare that had been next to her is forgotten. Starbry isn't sure if she died, ran away, or was still standing there - she couldn't force herself to look that direction to see what the stranger's fate had been. Her blue legs, tinged in remnants of the ooze, began to move and she stepped away from the river. She kept walking, noticing that dawn was arriving and the ooze had vanished from her legs. Had the grass wiped it away or had it disappeared? It didn't matter. She stopped in front of a giant oak tree and admired the autumn colors dripping from its branches. Her yearning for company had evaporated just as the ooze on her legs had seemed to do. She took a deep inhale, dipped her head, and closed her eyes to relish in the feeling of her heart beating, the morning breeze against her body, and the sun arriving to warm the earth.

The Ooze

Sat, 18 Oct 2025 00:10:33 -0400

Things have been going pretty well as far as random events in Beqanna go. A peaceful pair of ghosts, some sweet little baby bats. But you? You my friend are wandering near the River one night when you realize... that's not water that's coursing over the rocks. It's a vibrant green ooze that starts to glow a little brighter the closer you get to it. And it's definitely not running the way water does, more of a meandering slop than anything.

Seems super approachable, right?

Happy Spooky Season!
- this drop is open to the first two characters to reply (only one per player)
- gifts will be randomized but autumn-themed
- if you miss out, don't worry! Keep your eyes open every Friday this month for more chances.
- if there is still an open spot, players that had entered into the previous drops may do so again on Thurs Oct 23

I could come here and scream as loud as I want

Thu, 11 Sep 2025 16:02:16 -0400

FAZIA

There’s no one to blame for Fazia’s lack of progress with the tasks given to her on the mountain except herself — but that hardly matters. It’s so much more satisfying to blame everyone else. They’re not interesting enough to try to possess so what is she supposed to do? Lower her standards? Absolutely not.

She was interesting and she deserved to float around in some interesting minds. Or possess someone. However it worked. If she was going to exist in the body of someone else for a while they could at least spark something inside of her.

This evening, she decides to stop being the bait, hoping to lure someone in, and focuses on being the hunter. Taking a more active approach in this whole quest thing. You know, just in case it makes a difference.

Just in the small, miniscule chance the lack of progress is her fault.

The sun is just beginning to touch the horizon, the shadows long and cold as she walks along the bank of the river. Red light projects from her body, touching the frozen ground and water. She cannot wait for spring, when the water will flow once more and not be so stagnant and rigid. Water was her friend, it flowed around her in a caress. Ice? Slippery and incredibly rude.

There’s still enough immaturity in her that she gives into the temptation to pause and stick her tongue out at it, the indifferent ice, and give it what she thinks is an excellent snarl for good measure.

oh hi