Wanda huffs, inside her tiny home; a glamour makes it dark, should anyone peek in, but the inside is steeped with lights and colors, little furbishings and even a window into some other plane of reality. She is quite comfortable here, and the tapping of his knuckles against the side of the pot rattles everything as if it were an earthquake shaking up a dense metropolis.
She hurries to the shelf where she keeps her cups and pots, using her splayed out hand to keep the delicate porcelain from falling to the floor and breaking entirely.
The words come out almost accusatory.
βI know we arenβt siblings. None of this is true in the same sense that time means anything.β
Pulled within the depths of the pot she is, can she really be blamed for sounding upset?
βI donβt want to see the sky.β
A sky that shatters under the weight of reality seeping into their made-up prism. However much of this is actually true she cannot tell, but Vexani is not her name in the same way that Wanda is. Sheβs forgotten so much that she never wanted to forget.
no subject
She hurries to the shelf where she keeps her cups and pots, using her splayed out hand to keep the delicate porcelain from falling to the floor and breaking entirely.
The words come out almost accusatory.
βI know we arenβt siblings. None of this is true in the same sense that time means anything.β
Pulled within the depths of the pot she is, can she really be blamed for sounding upset?
βI donβt want to see the sky.β
A sky that shatters under the weight of reality seeping into their made-up prism. However much of this is actually true she cannot tell, but Vexani is not her name in the same way that Wanda is. Sheβs forgotten so much that she never wanted to forget.