Kenza
She's not afraid of the dark: it comes every day, after all, just that this time it stays a bit longer. Not that Torchline is ever truly dark—the torches and bonfires flicker and spit, and she's got more than a few fond memories of previous years. Cozy, colder nights, curled up in her rarely used knitwear with a cup of steaming warm chocolate...
maybe the crazy beach party or two from her youth
As she walks down the beach (still barefoot, even if the sand is cold, having forgotten the sun) she can't help but feel a.. shiver, of sorts. Imagine it was unsafe, every shadow a monster, full of teeth and thorns and bad intentions, and then imagine that for some people, in some corners of this world, that was reality.
The heart-pounding terror. The trepidation. The raw, aching grief once morning comes. How brave mustn't those people be?
Her musings intersect with childish, high-pitched sounds; torchlight flickers over something immense and moving, the spray of water, and her mouth goes dry
(her pulse a roar)
—her gut clenches and she runs, breathlessly, a panicked streak with no plan, just intention, but—
There's no monsters in Torchline to tear your heart out. It's just an elephant (isn't that one of the Council members..?), spraying kids with water in the surf; those high-pitched sounds that carry so well? Laughter, not screams. There's no carnage underfoot, no blood and charred, trampled bodies, just some joy to lighten up the dark.
She clutches her hands against her chest, against her racing heart, unsure of what to do now that she has rushed onto the fringes like a madwoman.
"S-sorry—" she kind of stammers helplessly.
As she walks down the beach (still barefoot, even if the sand is cold, having forgotten the sun) she can't help but feel a.. shiver, of sorts. Imagine it was unsafe, every shadow a monster, full of teeth and thorns and bad intentions, and then imagine that for some people, in some corners of this world, that was reality.
The heart-pounding terror. The trepidation. The raw, aching grief once morning comes. How brave mustn't those people be?
Her musings intersect with childish, high-pitched sounds; torchlight flickers over something immense and moving, the spray of water, and her mouth goes dry
(her pulse a roar)
—her gut clenches and she runs, breathlessly, a panicked streak with no plan, just intention, but—
There's no monsters in Torchline to tear your heart out. It's just an elephant (isn't that one of the Council members..?), spraying kids with water in the surf; those high-pitched sounds that carry so well? Laughter, not screams. There's no carnage underfoot, no blood and charred, trampled bodies, just some joy to lighten up the dark.
She clutches her hands against her chest, against her racing heart, unsure of what to do now that she has rushed onto the fringes like a madwoman.
"S-sorry—" she kind of stammers helplessly.
