#(also i am. So Tempted to rewrite firebreathers and echoseers. not for plot reasons but for Tone and Style reasons)

[magic-is-something-we-create]

It’s not an utter emptiness of the air, an absence of thought and emotion, a void that sits where a city should, that has me fighting not to double over at the pain in my gut. It’s not even the writhing, wretched hatred coiling around Lakia’s neck at the sight of the ruins, the sorrow that sticks to Ember’s prone form as they sob, the stone dropping in Andy’s soul that rings through the distance between us as she climbs the cliff--though they might have come close, anywhere else.

It’s the terror that clings to the ashes.

It's the flickering visions of others’ lives and loves disintegrating before their eyes that bleed into the edges of my perception whenever I look at the wall of char. It's the stained glass figures that peek over the cliff of bones, still screaming, still breaking, still so much like the one that cradled me as I felt my sister’s life end.

It’s that no one else sees them.

guess what ya boy's working on on this fine friday