[72027]

Username: rocky.
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:

oh ye s
res

[jules_]

[mikey]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:
-Thrown out of his home for accidentanly destroying a home
- Goes on an adventure
- Nearly gets hurt!
- Finds a friend (Birb)
- Others are scared off him because of his abilities!
- Finds a new home!
(Animation/story?)

[starshine,]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:
res!

[Guest]

username waterfront
name glory
gender male

adventure `
(probably going to do mixtures of comics and writings, maybe some animation?? lord i haven't animated for months but it'd be fun
alsO IF anyone happens to be reading this and wants their kalons included shoot me a pm and we can work something out!!)

very goofy guy. really doesn't take anything seriously but gets into a situation where he's seen as some sort of higher power (mostly due to his magic) n has to learn to become serious in a sense. lots of dumb jokes along the way

ok so, im going to try to write this entirely to return visit to rock mass. jusst putting that there so i can remember ahhh

this is going to be so much fun!
beautiful kal <3

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[b]Username:[/b]
[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:[/b]

You've got unlimited words/ art pieces and may do animations or comics. ^^

Editing: Allowed
Coding/Prettying Up: Allowed
Extras: 1,000 extra words and 4 art pieces

[The Worst Username]

xxxx

se-kye-lee-ya
7,689 words


[center]My foot smashes into the ground, making dust spray up all around it, all up my legs. Run, run, run.

When I meet someone on my travels, I’m going to tell them that I’m on an adventure. Run, run, run. But is it really an adventure if you aren’t running towards something? Is it still an adventure if you’re running away?

Adventures, at least the ones in books that I read, are—for lack of a better word—fun. Sure, there are hardships, but the protagonist turns out alive and happy, even recounting her or his adventures in a jocular fashion years later. I remember The Iliad, The Odyssey, about the Trojan War and mystical adventures in ancient Greece; I remember Cross the Ocean, the story of an intelligent young woman and her friends who escape their oppressive country on a boat; I remember He Who Scaled the Great Mountain, which centers around a man who went to find treasure on an allegedly unscalable mountain; I remember The Well, about a Muslim woman and the strange book that leads her to the very bottom of a grotto. Even Little Bee, a story of a refugee who moved to England, could be counted as an adventure.

I look down. No! My pace is slowing. I force all of the thoughts to the back of my mind where they fester like angry cockroaches. Or like a fire. But I mustn’t think about fires: after all, a fire is what has me running away anyhow.

Keeping my brain clear, I run on, paws rhythmically slapping the dusty dirt trail in the hills. My heart is throbbing and my legs are burning; I’ve been running since this morning. Midsummer heat beats down on my back. Sweat drops spill down my cheeks like great salty tears, and I gasp great heaps of air every time I breathe. Hills bob up and down before me, and beyond them, gargantuan mountains stretch their cragged bodies up to the sky, jags cutting through the clouds like dull knives. Something within tells me that I’m too stupid to stop here. Something tells me that I’m going to go straight up into the mountains.



I’m sheltered just beside a grassy knoll; a cragged tree protects somewhat from the rain crashing down out of the sky in heavy sheets. It’s obscenely cold and wet out here, but the perseverant ring of fire around my horn burns on, not in the least perturbed by the army of water droplets falling out of the clouds. I think there’s something nice about that. Symbolic, even.

I pull open my knapsack, which lays on the patch of grass beside me. I only managed to snatch a few books when leaving the village, so hurried was my escape. One of the books, I Am the Cheese, is annotated in my loopy cursive script using a blue pen. The pages are yellowed, smelling of age and mildew, but they comfort me. I flip past the cover and start reading.

Halfway through the first sentence, an image blunders into my mind. It is one of flames, scaling the walls of a great building, licking at the stone and burning the wood to a crisp.

I force my eyes back down to the page. No.

I’m just in the middle of the second paragraph, eyes scanning over each inked letter, when—the picture of a man gasping, screaming, a man with a long beard and sunken eyes, a heavy cloak. His mouth is contorted into a terrified hole.

This is how it starts. This is how it always, always starts.

Slamming the book shut and tossing it carelessly into my sack, I make myself focus. “Escribir, escribo, escribes, escribe, escribimos, escribís, escriben. Escribía, escribías…” But it keeps coming back. Damnit, it keeps coming back: that handsome old face on that tired old man, gaping like Death herself is holding a sword to his chest.

I can’t stay here unless I want history to repeat itself. It may be nighttime and the moon may be dark, the mountains formidable crags, but Cecaelia, love, you have to keep going. You have the stars to guide you, no?

The knapsack practically throws itself onto my weary shoulders. I keep moving, picking my way through the foothills.



I stand at the base of the mountains now, and they rise up like great teeth directly in front of me. Something like anxiety fills me. It’s turned up to a booming crash in my ears, this paralyzing fear coupled with insurmountable excitement, and it throbs in my blood, daring me to go forward while at the same time freezing my feet into the ground.

I look back; the anxiety roars in my brain, now stemming from two sources. There’s nothing left for me there. I have to keep moving. Just like I’ve always kept moving.

Sucking breath into my lungs, I take one step—one tiny step, scooting my foot toward the mountains—and it has to be the most important step I’ll ever take. If I were truly on an adventure and not just trying to run away from myself, I would say that this monumental little step is where my journey truly begins.



I start my way up, picking through the rocks and debris. My feet hurt already and my sack rocks uncomfortably on my back. I’ll have to stop somewhere soon, but I won’t be staying more than a week, maybe two. I have to keep moving. So is the life of the cursed, is it not?

Padding my way up the mountain, I can see that the trail only gets narrower as it snakes along the cliff face. Will it ever reach a point where the trail simply disappears altogether, where it’s just sheer rock, dropping down to oblivion? I wonder.

I stop and pull off my backpack. I rifle through with desperate paws, picking through books upon books and star charts and old maps, a picture to remember everyone in the last town by. I get even father, finding pictures of people from previous towns, previous homes, previous lives, previous ruined chances. Mnemosyne, Euterpe, Polyhymnia, Erato, Calliope, Thalia, Oread, even Adrestia. One of these days when I am no longer a threat—a malicious, cursed danger, capable of creating pandemonium out of thin air—I will write their stories. I will write all of their stories.

But not now. Now, I am still a destructive, cruel force, and I still have to run. Now, I have to eat, but there is no food in my pack. I’m also getting a headache. Maybe they’ll have medicine for it in the next town—“Stop lying to yourself, Cecaelia. You know perfectly well what this means.”

I let silence drop over the world, only listening to the sound of the wind begging to be pulled under my power and the fire burning around my horn, blazing ever brighter. It whines. It’s going to start talking again.

Dragging my backpack and myself as far away from the edge as possible, I look up to the stars; every last one is a luminous individual, blindingly pure and unique. I can see every one of them up there: my parents, glowing strong and yellowish almost directly above me; my brother, who sits small and innocent next to them; my best friend hovering white just in front of me with all of my other friends comfortably burning around her; and my mentor, the reliable and great North Star. My love sleeps in the middle of all of them: the crescent moon, always waxing and always waning, always changing, always forgiving, always beautiful.

I cannot help but think of myself in the beautiful night sky too. My celestial manifestation is the darkness, isolating each and every glowing body in the sky, horrid blackness that encroaches upon the safety and livelihood of each and every being of the night. I pick them off and snuff them out, one by one.

Clenching my fists, I flip over. Clutch my backpack to my chest and stare at the stone wall. I can still feel them watching me.



It’s as if I ran straight into the mountain, fell off a ledge and hit my head on the stone, and got bludgeoned with surgical tools with helpless doctors trying to save me on the operating table—the pain, that is. My point is that it hurts. It flippin’ hurts, and I can’t think any more. I don’t know why I brought all of these stupid books; it’s not like I can focus enough to read. The most I can do is force my feet to move, one in front of the other to pick my way across the mountains.

My halo is whining; its piteous cries fill the empty landscape of cruel, jagged cries. They bounce off of the wall next to me and back into my ears. No words yet, just a mewling.

I walk slowly, letting the pack jostle, shifting her weight uncomfortably on my shoulders. The trail between the mountains stretches out for a short while before bending away again into unknown territory. These mountains have no end; I’ve been walking for days and I still can’t see…

I could use my wind control to lift me up, bring me to the dome of the sky in a billowing cloud of cool, humming air. I would be able to see everything; I would have power. I would see the end of the mountains.

A shock goes straight up my spine. “No,” I mutter gruffly, panic streaking my voice, “Cecaelia, that’s not you talking…that’s not you at all.”

Go up, go up—feel the wind bend around your claws, whistling through your fur. Listen to it whisper: Master. Let it whirl around, pulled into your grasp from out of the sky, and you will feel it in your blood, your bones. This is what you are meant to be, Cecaelia. This is what you are. Don’t force it to leave; let it in!

I clench my teeth and I look down—no. Wind curls around my leg, crawling. My eyes go wide as platters and I shout: “No!”

The wind crumbles, evaporating again into the air, and it fades away. My scream does the same, echoing off of the rocks until I can no longer hear it. Pain spikes in my head. Temples throb. Halo burns; I can’t see her raging fire but I can sense it. Headache.

Muscles tense, I walk stiffly away, hurrying down the pass.



I go around the bend, eyes fixed on the glowing sun, and I—what was that? Who made that noise?

“Good morning,” I say in a voice almost frighteningly placid. My heart, he jumps. Seizes. Releases. Jumps, all over again, screaming and pulsing blood through my body. My brain, she sends me into overdrive—throbbing headache. Bowels turned to water. Hackles raised. Sweat dripping. Halo blazing.

Footsteps, more of them, pad quietly down the bend—one person? two? three? five? eight? A rock grumbles, shaken from its place; the earth begins to to tremble, but maybe it’s just me, quivering and trying to peel away the shadows and rocks with my wide eyes. I remember something just like this, Adrestia and I—

A sound echoes all around me. Rocks—dozens of them, great boulders by the sound of it—rumble; the noise pierces my ears as they are shaken from their spots. Stones falling down, racing. They’re coming right for me.

I could manipulate the wind, stop all the rocks and—no. I can’t do that. I won’t.

I leap out of the way, graceful like a ballerina, as all the rocks collide. They smash together just where my feet were. “Who’s doing this? Hey! Who are you?” I shout. Rage creeps up in my mind, ready to grab my brain by the horns and send me into a frenzy like a crazed bull.

My eyes dart about, panicked, swiveling, and they pry into each shadow. Where? Who? Where?

Something flickers in the shadows.

I shriek. My legs react faster than I can, springing me up into the air; I reflexively manipulate the air around me and I start hovering. My eyes dart down and see the pillow of whistling wind beneath my feet. I shudder but I don’t let myself down.

The thing emerges from behind a rock. Scraggly mane, with a tail like a whip and iridescent scales, the creature stands on its back legs, triangular eyes darting around. Within mere instants it focuses its gaze on me. A Sjakrit. “Of course,” I breathe, not daring to move; these things are dangerous.

It—the Sjakrit—stares up at me for a while longer, almost curious. It locks me in a sort of stalemate.

My muscles are starting to relax, and I almost break my gaze. I breathe slowly. Deep breaths. It looks up and—

The creature springs up off the ground with its powerful hindquarters. It becomes a glowing blur as it speeds up towards me; the Sjakrit has left great scratches in the stone. It screams as it ascends: a primal battle cry.

I rush and dissolve the pillow of hovering wind, lowering myself as quickly as possible to the ground. I hit the stone and dig my claws in. They scrape against grey rock. Adrenaline pushes through every bit of my body as utter panic and rage make themselves known. My head feels like it’s being crushed between two great boulders.

“What do you want?” My voice shakes. The Sjarkit lands, claws going straight into the rock as if this were a mountain of sand and not stone. It focuses its opal-hued eyes on me, and its claws grip the ground; I hear more boulders rumbling.

“My land,” it hisses. The tone is feminine, albeit threatening and rough. “My land. Get out.”

“I—I’m trying to, to pass through, could—” The fire on my horn encases my brain, burning, begging to be used, whining: burn her burn her burn her go!

“Out!” she screams, and the tail whips; the rocks come flying down the sides of the mountains. I feel them falling off of cliffs, rolling out of caves, tumbling down slopes all toward this little valley. All toward me.

I shout as all of the rocks near in. I should jump out of the way.

Burn her burn her burn her go!

The halo whines at me. Its voice is becoming more defined, almost a squeal in my head: the grating of metal against metal. This time, I can’t silence it. This time, I know, the headache pains and the squealing and it all will take over, and—

Rocks hurtle towards me. This time, I don’t think twice: I pull up two great curtains of wind. They hum; my mind hums too. I can already feel the headache ebbing away as I walk to the Sjarkit, my face pure stone.

The Sjarkit’s expression consists of a mouth bent open, two eyes wide as discs, and nostrils slightly flared; she is petrified.

Burn her burn her! Go! Go! Go!

Again, the Sjarkit focuses her trembling eyes on me, and I steel myself. Will boulders jump out of the ground? Will daggers of rock impale my stomach? Will she simply suffocate me with stone? My feet freeze to the ground. I won’t back down. I’ve run away for far too long; I can’t let myself keep running.

The Sjarkit’s pupils dilate. I can still run. I still have time to go back, maybe I can—

My headache rages, and then, just like that, my head stops hurting. I smell heat. I just smell the heat as it climbs into my nostrils, burning, burning, burning. Burn her burn her burn her—

Oh no.

I didn’t even realize that my eyes were closed, but now I open them. Even before I open them, I know: the fire halo. It’s taken over. I swore it would never happen again, but it took over. Just like that.

I can do nothing but watch as flames out of my control spring off of the halo in rings. Licking rings, searching and angry, slobber over the rocks. Soon enough, they get to the Sjarkit.

“Run! Run!” I shriek, letting the blazing fire into my open mouth and open eyes. She is already sprinting, racing around the corner.

I can’t stop the flames once they’ve started; I’m powerless against the monsters that I release. The blazes go out, rings dissipating into the sky. I watch them fade away, shaking and gasping.



“Five sisters, five poets, five queens of words and dictators of knowledge, were the first to welcome me into their home when I came to their doorstep a little lost girl in an unfamiliar town…” I mutter to myself. I think there’s a valley coming up soon. Maybe there will be other people—food?—I hope they have food. “I was not an orphan, but in a sense I was: I had run away from home. I had done something horrible, and I ran away for it.”

The moon is slowly traipsing across the land of gleaming stars and intimidating blackness; I do the same, plodding under the moon across mountains and narrow trails. A world of drudgery. I try not to think of the glowing moon as my Adrestia or the luminescent stars as friends and family. It’s better to pretend that your demons aren’t there. That they never were.

Yet, I find myself telling a story to the gleaming stars and glowing moon: the story of the first time I ran away. “They put me to work on the farm: collecting chicken eggs. The sisters told me that it was a special job. It was my duty to keep the eggs from cracking; whenever I went into the coop, the nests were full not with eggs but with jewels, precious and fragile. I imagined that God was watching me with Her great, unblinking brown eye, making sure that I did not drop a single precious gem on the floor.”

I keep talking like this, spinning tales for most of the night. Once the moon has started its descent from the top of the sky, I am nearing the end of my first tale. “Euterpe—writer of beautiful music, always accompanied by her flute—was my favorite; I loved to sing the lyrics she wrote. The other sisters applauded me. A few laughed, and they all were sure to smile except for Polyhymnia. She was my least favorite—too serious and too pretentious for the likes of a silly little twelve-year-old girl—but she was the only one to survive. Funny how these things work,” I end on a somber note, shoving images of what happened out of my mind. Licking flames and screams and wind slicing buildings in half, all of it fades back.

Eventually, I turn my aching neck back to the ground. I think I see—is that a town? Yes! There’s a little town, right down in the valley!

I suck in a breath; it hurts. My headache is already resurfacing, but for now, I don’t care. Everything clear from my mind, I start racing, my little scaly feet carrying me across the rocks.



The town comes into view: it’s simple, even homely, with squat buildings and one modest stone Agrivuk in the center of town. These people must worship Miqeyt, God of Earth, and his offspring, all great gods—the deities of water, of wind, and of fire. Good. Miqels are typically friendly people. Their kind is all too familiar with being homeless, being chased out of their lands, and they never turn away weary travelers.

I walk down the main path of the village; for a poor farming village, this is surprisingly neat and well thought-out when it comes to infrastructure design. I’m halfway to the Agrivuk, my paws clicking on the bumpy stones, when someone finally comes to greet me.

A man, by the looks of it, sprints down one of the side roads toward me, wearing the heavy cloak indicative of the Miqel faith. A bun bounces on the back of his head. “Hello, sir!”

Before I can stop myself, I call back, “I—I’m a woman, sir. What’s your name? I’m Cecaelia.”

“Oh. Dear me,” the man says, cheeks pink. He comes to a stop in front of me and pushes his bun upright. “My name is Sfoi. And—how do you know our language? You appear to be a foreigner.”

“Ah, yes, my mother spoke it. I was wondering,” Cecaelia, don’t let your voice falter.

“Intriguing! What were you wondering, then?”

“I—” can’t stop now, can you, Cecaelia? “Do you have a space where I could stay for a while? It’s just, I had to leave my home a while ago, and well, I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Sfoi looks at me for a moment, considering. “Well, I suppose we could let you stay for awhile—I’ll ask the council about a permanent residence, then—though they might be a bit put off by your flame-horn or whatever it’s called. Where did you get that, anyways?”

“Erm—” I struggle for words. Sheesh, this man is nosy. “I was born with it.”

“Oh! Did your father have it too, then?” Sfoi peers at me curiously.

“Uh, no. I guess I’m kind of anomalous.”

“Well, anyways, you can stay in the family barn! I hope you don’t mind the cow, and the cat and all, but you can stay in the hayloft—we can bring up a sleeping mat and a pillow for you.” Sfoi starts running back down the path, and I hurry after him, starting to pant almost instantly. He’s quite fast.

“Thank you,” I say, gasping, “for letting me stay here.”

“Oh, ma’am—Cecaelia, was it?—it’s no problem! Come along, then, it’s not too far.”

He picks up his sprint and I follow him. We run down the pale streets like two stars in the night sky, forever chasing the dawn.



I wake up to find breakfast right next to my sleeping mat, nestled in the hay: a glass of lukewarm water and a few odd-looking rolls, all in a worn wooden basket. The rolls have cooled off by now, but they still taste good; all of them are made of black bread. My head is hurting, but I don’t care as I shove hunks of food into my mouth.

Rolling off of my mat, I land in bristling hay bales. I brush stray bits of hay out of my scraggly blue hair. “It’s a new day. Alright, Cecaelia? You got that?” Closing my mouth, I stare ahead at the barn. Dreary old barn, stacks of wood planks and a sad old cow in the corner. The cow is hidden in the far corner so that I can only see the faint outline of her scrappy form and her brown eyes, gleaming with fright.

She knows. Why is it that only animals can see the monsters hidden behind these masks people call their faces?



Sfoi drags me through the town, much more lively now in the light of day. He chatters bubbly words into my ear but I hardly listen; this place is amazing: shopkeepers and merchants and peddlers, all in cloaks, shout the merits of their wares to the heavens. People line up to buy, carrying worn baskets of bread, candles, twine—everything.

“Anyways, I was thinking—as long as you’re here, Sihkai, we were wondering if you would help milk Etou, then? And plow the fields, if you didn’t mind?” Sfoi chirps, pulling me past a fish cart.

“Would you stop calling me that?” My headache clangs like a drum being pounded in my head.

“I’m pronouncing it correctly—aren’t I?” He bites his lip, and I immediately tense up.

“Sorry. I mean, sorry, you got it right, it’s Cecaelia, but I mean, I just don’t like nicknames, so…” I trail off, cheeks reddening in shame. Big, fierce Cecaelia, with fire bursting out of her head, reduced to a blubbering fool in instants.

“Oh. My—I’m sorry, I…” he trails off and I don’t say anything in response. We continue to walk in tense, hesitant silence through the hubbub of the market, not bothering to add anything more to Sfoi’s shopping basket.

Instead of talking or staring at my feet as they carry me across the paved streets near the Agrivuk, I look around at the people. An old hunchback, carrying a single trout in her hand and defiantly refusing to use a cane. Two men, walking in comfortable silence. A group of three women, debating something interesting—proof of the gods, proof of other gods, the possibility of a lack of gods in the universe, and other theories for how the world might have started. A father, tall and sure, with his young daughter whose face is painted with determination as she tries to heft a fat shopping bag. Such unique, beautiful people—another reminder, Cecaelia, that you can’t stay here too long. You can’t risk hurt—

“Sihkai—Cecaelia, what happened?” Shouting. Sfoi is shouting and the babble of the market is silenced. I can’t see a thing; blackness swims in my eyes and the headache punches me down like a hammer. All I can think is: I never get into this stage so early.

“I—I’m sorry, I—” I cut off my blabber before I start rambling.

I pick myself up, biting my lip at the pain; it intensifies the second I move. The swarming black slowly recedes, and I look around: the entire market has crowded around me, with some people holding out their hands to help steady me.

My eyes dart around the sea of faces. Dark and pale, young and old, female and male.

I take an unconscious step forward, my eyes scanning. I’m searching for something but I don’t know what. For the time being, my halo is silent; she doesn’t even whine in the least. What’s going on—there.

His face is only one of at least two dozen in the crowd, but it stands out like it’s iridescent and glowing. A gaunt face. Mouth in a frown—not displeased but instead fearful, pitying. A beard, reaching his collarbone, piggish eyes sunken into his skull. He is the man from my vision.

My headache reaches a screaming peak and I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block it. “Sfoi,” I gasp. It’s hard to breathe. “Sfoi, I need to go. Now.”

No one speaks. The crowd parts for me as I run, run, run, headache throbbing, back to the solace of the barn.



“‘Mnemosyne.’ An ugly name for a lovely mother, tall as a goddess with all the wiry muscle and tanned skin of a farmer. I don’t remember much of her but for her laugh. It was a hideous laugh—nasal and sickly—but it was her laugh, and that made it special,” I’ve resorted to telling myself stories; it takes away the pain, if only for a moment, to see the smiling face of a loved one instead of the burning buildings, to hear the soothing lullaby of my mother instead of gusts of wind and the voice inside my head screaming. I can still feel the headache. It’s as if there’s someone in there, slowly shattering my skull from the inside with his pickaxe.

“She—” pain shoots through me and I roll over in the hay like a pitiful animal. The cow doesn’t respond; of course she doesn’t. She’s long since left the barn, probably showed up on the front step of the house of Sfoi’s family. Or maybe the cow simply ran off into the mountains, spooked by the monster in her home. Right now I don’t know. Right now I don’t care.

“She’s still alive today, of course. Likely sitting at home now, looking over the farm, waiting for my father to come back from plowing the fields. Golden sunshine melting upon her, cat in her lap, threadbare dress on her back.” A beautiful thought. It’s saddening when I clear my eyes and all I can see is the dismal barn, dark and with a wretched stench. I don’t know what it is; the farms I used to live on didn’t smell like this.

I clutch my knees to my chest as I sit in the hay. An animal. I’m just an animal, hiding in the dark with shredded clothes and oily hair that falls into my face. If Adrestia saw me now, what would she think of me? I don’t even know. Maybe I don’t want to.

The voice in my head is shouting at me to burn. Let it all out. Let it all dissolve into flames, into a scorching scar, a blemish in the middle of the tranquil mountains. Let it go. Let it out. Let me out. “Let me out!” I scream, the sound ripping from my mouth and echoing off the walls. It is not my voice. It is the voice of the flame.

I stare down somberly at the hay-covered wooden floor between my legs. Images of roaring flames and screaming townspeople and Adrestia pour into my mind. I let them come, too weak to put up a wall any longer.



“I was a monster. So many years I thought I could control it, thought I could hold it in, thought I could silence what was welling up inside—and all for her. It was all for her. Well, I was an idiot. Of course I couldn’t contain it. I came out one day…I burned that seaside village into ashes.” I let the stories pour out. If anything, they control the onslaught of headaches and the voice screaming in my head. The story wants to be told, and so I am telling it.

“I realized…every time the flames and the wind overpower me, making me into their avatar for destruction, the lapse between then and the next time they’ll take over gets shorter and shorter. I spent years in that town while the headaches built up and the voices screamed louder, but now it’s only a few weeks that I’ve been here and it’s already happening again. They’re going to take over soon. There’s nothing I can do, but if I leave. If I leave, then good God, it’ll hurt, it’ll hurt so much that I’ll want to come back and destroy everything if only to keep them at bay.”

While I drag myself to the corner, the headache builds. I didn’t know it could hurt this much. My head’s never felt this bad before.

“But anyways…” I mutter. Honestly, I’m not sure if I should start. But I suppose that I’ve reached a place where this suffocating silence hurts more than ripping the moldy cloth bandage off of these memories.

I take a deep breath and start to tear off the bandage, not yet ready to expose the festering wounds, infected and leaking yellowish pus. “Classic love story, it was: I, a weary traveler resting my bones on the cheapest cot the inn could offer; she, a mischievous waitress working in the tavern below. She always looked at me with a twinkle in her green eyes, and she would push her black locks up onto her head. I would just duck, pretending to be interested in my books, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to lose myself in the stories; I wanted to be near her.

“So one day, I was at the seaside, watching the waves crash against the rocks. She came out—Adrestia did—and I didn’t know what she was doing. Now that I think about it, she was probably following me. I was a silly little girl then: stupid and innocent; young and beautiful. Look at me now…

“Well, we talked, sitting by the ocean. She kicked her feet over the edge and so did I, eyeing nervously the froth below. Adrestia wanted to know everything: where was I from? What am I reading? What do I think of Pascal’s Wager? Outgoing and smart. Mischievous and vulgar. Beautiful and free. She was sparkling red wine…God, what am I talking about?

“I remember sitting with her under the moon and the stars, back before I hated the moon and stars. We would talk, just talk from dusk until dawn about books and theorems…Adrestia was destined to be a great philosopher—scientist, even, an astronomer, maybe a cartographer. She loved her maps. Adrestia had them put up all around her house when I moved in. Just wall to wall, maps and star charts.” I roll over in the hay, not caring that there are and mats in my hair.

“But then…” my lip twitches. Images come to mind, reeling out of the dark haze like demons in an apocalypse. Flames licking at buildings. The sky crowded with smoke. People screaming—so many screams. Wreckage. A house breaking down, and the smell. Smoke and ash, wind and dust, hellish flames and blood. She was there—Adrestia, she was there; she screamed as the smoke consumed her. “‘What have you done?’ she asked me.” I bite my lip, nearly drawing blood. “What have you done, Cecaelia?” It’s only a trembling breath, but it builds, each syllable louder.

“What have you done?” I scream. My voice reverberates across the barn, torn. It echoes on the walls, ripped. Shredded with anguish. What have you done?



There is still a patchy roof above me, but in my feverish state, it seems as if I can see the stars. Visions constantly leap between my brains and reality. Shadows come to life in the corners when I glance at them. The sun glows above me, then the moon, then it flickers to the roof of a barn. I don’t know where I am. Something tells me I’m still in the barn, but whose barn? Sfoi. Yes, Sfoi. Right?

Hay sticks into the fur on my back. My ribcage protrudes from my chest; I can’t remember the last food I ate. Possibly that hunk of black bread. Even my tail lies, scraggly and twisted, hanging off the hay. My lips are bleeding in two places; the fur around them is sticky and red. I must look quite a fright.

I focus my bleary gaze on the stars. Are they truly the stars, though? I don’t know; I don’t care. Everyone I have ever met, ever cared for, ever loved, rests among those stars. Whether they’re real or not…I’m going to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” The fever splits my skull in two. “I’m sorry, Dad. And Orpheus—you were always Mom’s favorite.” It’s burning now. The fever, it burns; I can feel heat right above my eyes, festering.

“Daphne: I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You were my best friend and I’ll never forget you.” The stars flash red for just an instant.

“My mentor: I never knew your name, but I’m still sorry. I’ll remember you, forever and always.”

“I’m sorry to the Muse Sisters, especially Euterpe, and even Polyhymnia.” I can almost feel the fire that burned when I destroyed their tiny village, crackling at my sides.

“I’m sorry, Sfoi. I treated you like dirt, and—” my headache pulses and I seethe— “I’m sorry.”

“Most of all. Good God, I think back and I wonder what I have done…Adrestia. I’m so, so, sorry. Words just…they can’t…I’m sorry. I love you, I still love you; I won’t ever forget you. Adrestia…” I trail off.

Wait. Something’s wrong. I feel it like a soldier might feel an arrow in his boot or like an adventurer might feel a numbness in her foot.

I push myself up and I blink. The stars begin to rupture, white forms bleeding into one another as the darkness swallows them. Slowly, the image begins to swirl and contort; the night sky melts into a barn roof. Cracks of weak light shine through the slats. But light is coming from somewhere else, too.

Shaking, I rise to my feet. Just like that. Just like that, my vision clears, and half a weak gasp slips out of my mouth.

I am surrounded on all sides by fire. Crackling, swirling, burning and blazing: fire. Flames leap up the sides of the barn. They feast upon hay bales. “My God,” I murmur. My head swirls with pain, and I breathe ever so slowly. The cycle is almost over.

I look around, tears pulling themselves out of my eyes. The flames flicker, and the instant I spot an opening, I run. It’s pointless to try to run from it, but I must try. It’s all I can do now.



“Help me,” I wheeze, breathing through the fire. There is no one to listen; only I am here, hanging on by a thread. If I let go for even a moment, the flames will take over.

I make my feet move. Every intentional motion is hell; my legs stiffen, trying to pull back, trying to take me to the mountains. “It’s not your fault,” I say to them, “it’s not your fault.” The mountains are close now. Each step is a struggle. I might as well be shackled in chains and weighed down by hunks of iron.

With a jolt, I push my paw out and forward, splaying the claws at the end; I wait for wind to come buffeting forth from it. There is nothing.

It’s really happening, isn’t it?

I need to move faster. I need to get out of here.

My halo burns. Soothing me, whispering sweet lies. I can’t let myself listen. Her voice is thick and syrupy now, only just tinged with the rage she holds back. Let me out let me out let me out.

I grit my fuzzy, plaque-encrusted teeth and I launch another leg forward. It jerks in its socket, and my glinting claws come unsheathed, strangely metallic in the sunlight. The shadow of smoke fills the air. I hyperventilate.

I keep walking, launching my foot—

My leg snaps backwards. I can feel my heart in my chest: screaming blood through my body. All my muscles seize up. No. No. No. My jaw is quivering. I’m biting my lip, not caring that I break the skin. No. No. No.

I force the leg forwards. Each motion is jarring, each joint jerking about. My body is no longer mine. No. No. No.

I strike the leg into the ground. Its claws dig into the dirt, covering themselves in dust. No. No. No.

Now, a glint of sun upon the claws. They shake. No. No. No. Oh God, they’re—

My claws begin to drag in the dirt. They all tense up, and they start pulling backwards, dragging my leg. No. No. No. “Please, God, not again, I—”

I feel a shriek ripping out of my throat. I feel my leg turning me around. Dragging me backwards, throwing me to the ground. Halo is glowing brighter than ever; I know it. I’ve already lost the battle.



I survey the town helplessly as Halo drags me toward it. Tiny buildings: farm houses and barns, stone and wood, pathways roads buildings homes families people. The Agrivuk is in the center of them all. It is a guardian, a sentry, a soldier. This town’s David to my Goliath. “I’m sorry,” I breathe, but it cannot hear me. None of them can hear me.

It is day, but no one is out. They must still be in their homes. “Leave,” I say, “leave.” But my voice is weak. My head is throbbing. My very mind is straining in all different directions, and it burns; it begs to burst out fire. I can’t let it. I won’t.

“Leave!” I shout. But my voice is weak still and my mind is weak and I am weak and there’s nothing left I can do. I watch, helpless, as I’m dragged over gravel paths. I never even made it back into the mountains.

The tips of my ears start to burn. Oh God. I clench my teeth and whisper apologies under my breath, apologies that will never be heard. Now comes the pain.

Fire shoots out, first whistling around my head, around Halo, as if it's unsure of where to go. It breaks free, whirling all around me, and—I'm starting to levitate too.

Every time I've lost control, this was at the same time the best and the worst part of it all. Part of me knew—and knows right now—that there is fire encircling my body. Part of me knows that this fire is creeping its way over my fur, singing the matted hairs. Part of me knows that this fire is about to let loose: explode away from my body and do what it wishes, burning everyone and everything, then it will leave me broken, exhausted until it needs me again.

The other part of me, though. It is crazy. It is irrational. But it is here; this other part of me sings as flames whirl around me. It loves the heat. The rush. The crazy high that comes before reality sets in and brings me to my knees. This part of me lives for the feeling of raw power building up inside of me, as if I am more than merely the avatar, the carrier for a deadly flame. This part of me? It wants to live in the moment when the flames are about to be released forever. It is part of me, and it is here, making me smile madly, feverishly as flames build up around me.

The fire explodes away from me. In just a second, I know: reality will come crashing back down. Now, though, I can drown my weakened body in the adrenaline.



Halo—the halo? Halo?—still binds me, but her hold has loosened. I can still feel the weight on my back, that death grip. Now, though, I can move of my own accord. Something inside me says that if I stop the fire, she’ll bring me another headache: a migraine. “How do you do it?” I breathe, pushing my pupils to the tops of my eyes, but I can’t see Halo and she doesn’t answer.

I focus my eyes back on the town. What have I done?

Buildings around me burn. Now I realize: everything but the Agrivuk is made almost entirely of wood; it is the only pure-stone structure. Tiny houses with lopsided thatch roofs and half-broken doors are the first to go up in flames. I watch, paralyzed, hypnotized, and rapacious flames lick up their sides. Thin wood panels turn to char. Doors crumble. Roofs erupt, dry and vulnerable from the lack of rain.

I almost forget what comes next.

Just as quickly as flames burst from me, screams burst from the houses all over. High pitched and weak and childish and helpless: screams. They pierce my ears and rip at my mind. It takes me a few seconds to realize that I, too, am screaming. First, it is merely a tuneless, wordless sound, but now it has words. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

People start to race from their homes. Women and men and children come running with cloaks flying behind them and faces contorted into screams. I can only watch and scream and try to fight it as more flames come, smashing into houses and burning them to crisps.

But I can’t fight them.

Voices shriek in my ears: that of the man running past me with tears flying down his cheeks. That of the woman racing toward the forest, small children in tow, not letting herself look back. That of the child who screams as a house burns down before their eyes. That of the woman throwing aside crumbling logs, trying to get inside a house—her family’s house.

And that of Halo, rising above them all.

She closes my mouth and makes my legs swerve on the granite. I’m breathing, hard. Flames still burst from me. I know: I am her instrument. Instruments are fragile, pitiable little things, which fall into dusty, grimy disrepair if not kept clean. They are hollow, unless a powerful force fills them with noise.

I am fragile. I am hollow. I am a husk, a shell. A shell cannot stop the world from burning.

My legs buckle and I let them collapse. Screams reverberate around my skull. They are the only things that have ever been there; maybe that’s why I can’t think for myself; maybe that’s why I need Halo controlling me, shoving a bit in my mouth and a saddle on my back and chains, miserable chains, on my legs.

Pressure builds up behind my eyes. In my throat. In my chest. Tears flood my eyes, making the world foggy. I let them spill, drenching my hot face with cool, cool salt.

The world shudders around me. Licking flames turn to red blobs and screams turn to buzzes in my ears. A blob runs toward me.

I bury my face in my paws. Maybe if the flames consume me, I will die, and this cycle will end.



Good luck, everyone, and have a great day!

[Echos]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:

Alllll wipp

[cyberdragon725]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:
Res. His adventures to find the Soul Tear and protect the power it holds within.

-Nurari goes as his companion.

[Chippitty]

Needs to find their heritage through a series of tasks, one clue leading to another. They must find who they are and where they came from, since they've been alive for thousands of years listening to wishes but never knowing what to do with them. Wip

Ideas
-4 other sibling
-fraction of sea, fraction of land, fraction of mind, arms fraction of energy

[SoupPupped]

Username:
Name:
Gender:
Draw/Write about an adventure they went on:

Runs away from home when little
Long adventure, encounters humans, escapes
Finds pack of dragons in the mountains
Learns their ways
Returns home bearing knowledge that will save the pack