She came out of the earth, hot and burning. The Core spit her out.
Not born, but emerged—from a crack that split obsidian and basalt like the world had sighed too hard. Heat rolled first, then light, then her: a Lava Elven girl with hair like flowing magma, orange-gold and glowing even when she frowned, which was often. Emerald eyes caught the light like polished gems, sharp and bright and very, very alive.
She was young by elven measures. Old enough to be loud about it.
“Whatever,” she muttered to the sky the first time she saw it, squinting like the sun had personally offended her. “Overrated.”
She was brash. She talked too fast, laughed too loud, snapped before thinking. Her temper flared like a spark in dry netherrack—quick, hot, dramatic. She said things that landed wrong. She didn’t always realize they had landed until people went quiet.
And gods, did people love comparing her.
You’re just like her.
An echo.
The Nature Elven Witch, reborn in fire.
She hated that name without ever meeting the woman. Hated how it stole space from her own shadow. Like she wasn’t allowed to exist without being a reminder.
So she burned brighter instead.
Her care didn’t look soft. It never did.
She knows her new Endermanlike friend doesn't like holding eye contact, even when they don't say it out loud, out of nervousness? Politeness maybe? Whatever, she doesn't care. She just notices. Obviously. Fixing her prior mistake during their first meetings.
“Your eyes are… intense,” she said bluntly, then quickly added, louder, “So I’m not looking. Whatever.”
She just plopped down, crossed her legs, and stared very intently at the ground.
At a picnic,
When there weren’t enough places to sit, she stood up with a huff and slammed her heel into the dirt. The earth listened. A boulder pushed itself up, smooth and warm.
“Here,” she said, gesturing like it was nothing. “It’s more comfortable. For me, I mean. Lava elf. Heat thing. You take it.”
At home—if a half-carved stone cavern with glowing cracks counted—she set water down when her fish-like friend visited. Buckets at the door. Flowing channels cut into stone.
The water soaked into her rugs, hissed against the heat, ruined everything she’d carefully arranged.
She didn’t complain.
“It’s fine,” she said, kicking aside a soggy carpet. “I needed a redesign anyway. Whatever.”
She was cringe in the way only someone honest could be. Emo in the way that meant too many feelings and not enough polish. She said “whatever” when she meant I don’t know how to say this matters to me.
She played pranks. Small ones. Swapping signs. Rearranging blocks. Placing small lava pools where no one expected them. Mischief, not malice.
She had never known death. Not really. Never lost someone to time the way others whispered about. Never watched age steal a loved one away.
And people resented her for that, quietly.
The comparisons followed her like smoke.
Except with the Purple Alien.
They were… similar, they would say. Too similar. Same Color Features. Same way of caring sideways. Same sharp humor, The difference is that the Older one is well liked, while she, isn't. But what's an Elven Lady to an Elven girl anyway?
She told herself she didn’t like them.
They argued constantly. Banter edged like flint. Words sparking, sometimes burning.
But she noticed things.
How the Alien paused before speaking, choosing kindness even when sarcasm came easier. How they saw her, not the echo of a witch she’d never met.
“You’re not her,” the Alien said once, simply, during a quiet stretch of starlight.
She scoffed. “Yeah. Obviously.”
But she stayed close after that.
She was new to the world above. New to grass and rain and friends who weren’t stone and fire. Her kin stayed deep below, in the crust, where change was slow and safe.
She didn’t.
She burned forward instead.
Young. Loud. Awkward.
Alive—undeniably, fiercely alive—and, unmistakably her own.
