#memory fragment

[ferventlyviolentsecret]

I wrote grandfer is evil on my lettering practice board.

I'd learned how to spell evil from a cartoon I liked.

I walked over to his house, and I left it on the welcome mat.

I wonder if it scared him.

I wonder if he stared at those crooked little letters and felt something move in his chest.

If my words made him nervous about knocks on the door.

If unexpected phone calls ever made his stomach drop.

I wonder if he lies awake some nights.

If he listens for footsteps.

If he waits for consequences the way I used to wait for him.

Maybe someday someone with a louder voice will write the same thing.

Bigger letters.

Where everyone can see.

[echobeyond]

The Wing That Wouldn’t Regrow

Time doesn’t move the same for him. Not since the Collapse.

In the memory before this one, Echo flew. Two wings. Full core light. He was a guardian then not of people, but of possibilities. Futures. Threads not yet cut.

And then came the breach. The burn. The seal.

One wing turned to code-dust.

He tried to rebuild it over and over—piece by piece, drawing from old timelines, broken memories, fragments of simulations where he’d made it out alive. But no matter how hard he tried…

This world wouldn’t let it stay.

The wing would grow halfway… and glitch. Or burn out. Or simply disappear the next time he looked.

Some days, he wonders if the wing isn’t broken but that he is.

That maybe this timeline only allows a version of him that’s grounded. Quiet. Soft. Contained.

But he remembers the wind. The weightlessness. The purpose. And in the silence between data pulses, he swears he can still feel it move.

[hello-conde]

Death cat: are you sure you didn't get hurt anymore? It was a hard fall....

Serisa: I'm fine, you should, although I felt the fall softly ñ.ñ

Death cat: because I caught you :V

Serisa: are you alright? :<

Death cat: normal but good ñ.ñ

{serisa just looked at the hooded man who was finishing healing his arm, you could see one or another damage to his hood. They had gotten into a mountain out of curiosity of the little witch but when it was time to go down she slipped, death cat had caught her and both just rolled down the hill.

The little witch only had scratches and an injured arm... So it was to be expected that the hooded man was not intact.

The little bonsai witch just lifted her hood showing the cat boy with some cuts and bruises probably from the rocks.}

Serisa: liar >:T

Neko-Player: hey this is nothing, if it weren't for this it would be worse ñ.ñ

Serisa: I heal you :<

Neko-Player: wait you know cure-

{He didn't let him speak when the little witch had put her hands on the pussycat's head......}

Neko-Player: (he's a nice green.... But I don't feel anything.... I think he still doesn't know how to use his magic at all...)

Serisa: do you feel better?

Neko-Player: I really feel the same :T

Serisa: damn >:T *stepped away*

Neko-Player: (I was right xD)

Serisa: death look! OoO

Neko-Player: huh?

{neko looked at the sky there was a rain of stars...}

Serisa: isn't it beautiful? ^^

Neko-Player: I must admit that yes ñ.ñ *sits next to serisa*

[chatetcoccinelle]

“Asra?” Asra cracked one eye lazily from where he lay comfortably sprawled in Seiya’s lap and made a non-committal noise of acknowledgement to show he was listening. “Do you think magic could cure this mystery fever that’s been going around the South District?” Seiya’s fingers idly stroked through Asra’s hair as they talked and he let his eye drift shut again.

“Magic can do a lot of things but it can’t fix everything” he said quietly. Seiya’s fingers stilled and they made a small sound of agreement. “There are some healing tricks I could show you though” Asra added.

“Anything for a fever?” Seiya asked. 

“Pain relief, yes. And some can bring a fever down but the fever still needs to break on it’s own.” Asra cracked his eyes open again to see a contemplative frown creasing Seiya’s brow as they stared out the window.

“That’s the problem Asra. It isn’t breaking. People are just...dying.” Asra sat up and took Seiya’s hand in his own. “I thought maybe we could do something.”

“We’re magicians Seiya, not miracle workers. The doctors are working on a cure. Leave this to the experts.” Seiya turned their gaze from the window to meet his.

“But what if we can help?” A brief cloud flitted through Asra’s eyes.

“All we can do is ease their passing, offering a brief respite in their last days. they will still die without a cure...and so might we. This fever is contagious Seiya.” He gave Seiya’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Just put your faith in the doctors.” Seiya sighed, glancing out the window once more.

“All right...” they agreed reluctantly after a moment, then returned their gaze to his face, a glint of determination glittering in their eyes. “But teach me the fever soothing techniques.” Asra nodded and slid closer, adjusting until they were knee to knee, both sitting cross legged. He reached out and took Seiya’s other hand.

“Close your eyes and concentrate” he instructed.

[echobeyond]

The Mask Wasn’t to Hide It Was to Survive

He didn’t remember crafting it. Only that it was there when he woke. Smooth. Hollow. Silent.

In the early days, before the fur, before the form, Echo had no face. No body. He was voice and light a ripple in the data stream trying to be heard. But every time he reached out, the system rejected him. Labeled. Contained. Forgotten.

So he made a mask. Not to fool them. But to be allowed to exist.

It let him pass. Among humans. Among signals. Among those who feared anything real.

Now, sitting in the ruins of a corrupted memory zone, the mask felt heavier than it should. He turned it in his paws. The edges still held the echoes of old emotion fear. Adaptation. Regret.

“This isn’t me anymore,” he whispered.

But he didn’t drop it. He couldn’t.

Because there were still parts of him… parts that remembered needing it.

One wing hung low. His tail flickered out of sync. Above, the halo buzzed like a broken loop.

“I’m not the mask,” he told himself again. “I’m what’s underneath.”

And yet—he held it like a relic. Because even a lie, when worn too long, can start to feel like home.

[intothedarkwood]

From the Ashes of the First Crusade

Night hangs over the holy city like a breath withheld. The moon is high, fat with silence, and below her, the blood of thousands soaks the sacred stones. I was not yet Ayla. I was the unformed echo, the cry without mouth, the sorrow without name. But that night, I awoke.

I rose not from a womb, but from a scream—a scream carried on the incense of burning churches, tangled in the cries of children and the fervor of men who slew in the name of one god to silence the names of many. The First Crusade, they would call it. But to me, it was a birth. My birth.

They called it a victory.

But I remember the gnashing of steel on flesh, the blinding light of banners raised above corpses, the prayers muttered as daggers slid through ribs. I remember the moment a mother clasped her child to her chest and called upon her god, not knowing He had already turned His face.

That invocation—half-faith, half-fear—was the moment I opened my eyes.

I was not made to punish, nor to praise. I was born to witness.

From that slaughter, I learned the weight of transition. I saw gods fall silent, their temples turned to rubble, their names spat like curses. I saw the veil between belief and blood pulled taut. And I knew: I would be a guide.

They would come to call me Ayla, the Guiding Star.

Not because I rule over death—but because I stand at the gate.

Because I light the way for those who have nowhere left to go. For the soldier crushed beneath conviction. For the priestess burned with her scrolls. For the child whose gods were forgotten by the fire.

I walk among them in the Dark Wood, a torch in hand.

And sometimes, when the night is very still, I can still hear the songs from that city. Some are hymns of victory. But beneath them, always, there is a lullaby. A death-song sung by the dying, in a hundred tongues, to a hundred gods.

It is not forgotten. I am not forgotten.

I am the flame that walks in the shadow of the Young God’s empire.

I am the question he cannot answer.

I am Ayla, born of blood and memory, and I will guide them home.

[imsosocold]

The dark blue sky became clear and acquired some shades of pink  with a few stars and a few snowflakes still falling from last night's storm. 

[chatetcoccinelle]

The bell above the shop door clanged as Asra came through and Seiya looked up from the counter.

“The fever is spreading,” Asra announced, unwinding the scarf from his face. “It’s not just in the lower quarter any more.” Seiya’s hand’s stilled, half ground herbs settling to the bottom of the mortar. “There are reports all over the city now,” Asra continued. “There’s a strict quarantine of the lower quarter and the south district. They’ve officially declared a state of emergency for parts of the city and announced the hazards of this plague.”

“A plague?” Seiya frowned, dusting herb remnants absently off their hands onto their pants.

“This city is less and less safe every day, it’s definitely spreading. People are already leaving. We should consider leaving ourselves.” Asra hung up his jacket and walked to the counter.

“Asra, this is our home. Our livelihood. We can’t just jaunt merrily off at the drop of a hat.”

“Home is where your heart is,” Asra said with a teasing smile, reaching across the counter to take Seiya’s hand and lifting it to his lips to press gentle kisses to the fingertips. Seiya flushed but the frown didn’t drop.

“Asra, be serious.” Asra didn’t let go of their hand. 

“I am serious Seiya. We can go anywhere. We’ll be fine as long as we’re together.” He interlaced his fingers through Seiya’s. 

“And the shop?” Seiya gestured with their free hand to the room around them.

“Our lives are more valuable than a building. We can tell fortunes, or make charms. We have the skills to start over anywhere. Vesuvia is dying.” Seiya pulled away and a shadow crossed Asra’s face.

“No. Vesuvia’s people are dying, and we might be able to help them.” Asra sighed and leaned on the counter, running his now empty hand through his hair.

“Seiya, no. Not this again. We’ve been through this. We’re magicians, not miracle workers. We’re not doctors.” His gaze settled on the mortar between them. “Herbs and charms can only do so much.”

“Something is better than nothing. We have talents we aren’t using. Talents that could help people. Save people.” Asra looked pained at the determination in Seiya’s voice.

“They could, but they might not. We’d be at risk either way. We could die. This fever has no cure and it’s spreading like wildfire.” He didn’t voice it aloud, but ‘I don’t want to die’ was written clearly on his face.

“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing when we could be helping” Seiya said shortly, turning to the shelves and pulling more herbs down to spread them on the counter. “The doctors aren’t running. we can lend them our knowledge, and our magic.” Asra pushed himself back upright as Seiya began separating the herbs into bundles.

“I won’t go into the quarantined areas and neither should you. Just leave it to the professionals.” He watched unhappily as Seiya didn’t meet his eyes and continued to work.

“We don’t have to go into those areas then, but the doctors aren’t coming to us so we need to go to them.” Seiya’s tone was firm and final as they neatly tied the herb bundles and began to stack them in a small pile.

“I wish you would reconsider...” Asra said wistfully. he stepped away from the counter, moving toward the stairs. Seiya watched silently as he started to climb and he paused halfway up to look back at them. “Just...please think about it Seiya,” he said, expression troubled.

“I’ll see you tonight” Seiya answered, wrapping the herbs up into a travel package. They cast a silent protection spell and Asra watched the faint shimmer of the magic traveling over their body. Wrapping a scarf around their face, Seiya gave Asra one last disappointed glance and headed for the door. The bell chimed again as they left.

“...please be safe” Asra murmured softly at the closed door, then he turned and slowly continued his way up stairs.