(Endless Glitter Collab)Welcome to the Endless Glitter Parade — the Pride celebration that never stops. Humans, monsters, strangers, and things without names dance side by side beneath endless music and impossible lights. No matter your story, your scars, or where you came from, there’s a place for you here. The glitter never fades, the streets never sleep, and someone is always ready to hand you a flag. :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ🌈✦:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ The thing nobody tells you is that it's loud. Not bad loud — just more than I was ready for. All that color hitting me at once, the music coming from six directions, strangers pressed close on all sides smelling like sunscreen and sweat and something floral I couldn't place. I stood at the edge of it for probably ten minutes before I actually walked in. My brain kept offering me exits. 'You can just watch from here'.' You don't have to be in it'. 'You haven't figured yourself out enough yet'. That last one is the one that's been following me around. Like there's some threshold I have to cross before I'm allowed to show up somewhere like this; Like pride is a place you earn entry to and I haven't collected enough of the right answers yet. I don't know where I got that from. I don't know why I believed. Someone handed me a flag right as I stepped off the curb. Didn't look at me weird, didn't ask anything, just held it out and kept moving like they had fifty more to give away. Yellow and white and purple and black. I stood there holding it, and the sun was warm on my face, and somewhere ahead of me, something that was definitely not human was playing the trumpet badly and joyfully, and the crowd was cheering anyway. I laughed. Actually laughed. I don't know the last time I did that outside of my own apartment. I'm still here. I think that's the whole thing. I'm — still here.

(Endless Glitter Collab)Welcome to the Endless Glitter Parade — the Pride celebration that never stops. Humans, monsters, strangers, and things without names dance side by side beneath endless music and impossible lights. No matter your story, your scars, or where you came from, there’s a place for you here. :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ🌈✦:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ I'm a fire spirit, so I don't usually notice cities. They're warm in a general way — engines, bodies, asphalt baking in the sun — and I move through them like weather, present but not particularly involved. This street was different. Something was burning here that wasn't fire. I could feel it in the soles of my feet, coming up through the pavement, this low steady hum of something collective and alive. I turned a corner, and there they were. Thousands of them– Colors I don't have names for, sounds layering over each other until they became one sound, flags catching the wind. I'm used to people shying away from me. Flame tends to repel people usully, and I had gotten used to being alone. A man near the front, however, was struggling with a torch — real flame, good quality, slightly too heavy for him. I took it. He said thank you like I'd done something remarkable and I didn't know what to do with his face when he said it so I just nodded and started walking. That was three days ago, and I'm still walking like this celebration may never end. There's someone beside me now who's been there since yesterday, someone who doesn't seem to mind my heat, and that's a surprising thing to me, the way people accept you here. We don't talk much, but still, the fact that we are here together, that someone is choosing to stay close to me, means something I think. The glitter, too, keeps landing on me and staying, which defies several things I know to be true about my own surface temperature. I've stopped trying to explain it. Some things just want to stick around. I think I understand that today more than I did before.

(Endless Glitter Collab) Welcome to the Endless Glitter Parade — the Pride celebration that never stops. Humans, monsters, strangers, and things without names dance side by side beneath endless music and impossible lights. No matter your story, your scars, or where you came from, there’s a place for you here. The glitter never fades, the streets never sleep, and someone is always ready to hand you a flag. The music hit me before I even saw the street. I was still in the water — just offshore, salt on my tongue, half-listening — and then it came through the current like a hook. Not metaphorically. I mean, it actually hooked something behind my sternum and pulled. As a Siren, I've never followed music before....music follows me. But here I was...out of the harbor and onto the pavement before I'd made any kind of decision about it, heels clicking, scales catching the sun, fish in hand because I'd been mid-meal and I was not about to apologize for that. The crowd was already enormous. Loud in a way that should have been grating — I prefer controlled acoustics, intimate venues, and people who are a little afraid of me. This was none of those things. It was just — noise and color and ten thousand strangers waving flags and grinning at each other like they'd all agreed on something I hadn't been told about. I opened my mouth to sing, mostly out of reflex, mostly to feel like I was the one in control of the situation....but then, they sang back. All of the– not because I made them, just because they wanted to. I have been standing here for four days trying to understand that, and I am no closer to an answer, and I don't think I'm leaving until I figure it out.

(Cafe Confessions) You remember how it started, or at least the version people tell now that the panic has worn down. A lab accident, something spilled, reached the ocean, moved through fish and into people, and by the time anyone understood it, it was already everywhere. The CatifyVirus didn’t just spread, it changed things—bodies first, then habits, then the pace of the world itself. Most people woke up as cats, still thinking, still aware, just… different. Society didn’t collapse so much as slow down. Quieter streets, fewer crowds, more distance between everything. Some adapted. Some didn’t. Some are still pretending this is temporary. Tucked along a quieter street is a small café: Honeylume & Co. Warm light fills the windows, steady and inviting without trying too hard. Inside smells like citrus, tea, something sweet underneath. People don’t really come here for coffee. They come because they don’t know where else to go. There’s a window seat that always seems taken. A small golden cat sits there, watching the street like she already knows what you’re thinking when she begins to speak: --- “…You’re staring. It’s fine. Most people do. Little bit of shock, little bit of denial. Standard reaction. Bad chain of events for something that was supposed to be harmless. Happens more than you’d think. Some people panicked. Some tried to fix it. Some of us adjusted. Probably a little too well. I'm Honeylume, I had a 9-to-5 before this. Same schedule, same exhaustion. This? Better. Less pressure. Huge improvement. The café isn’t just about coffee. People come here with problems. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense. Still matters, but I’m not carrying everyone alone. I have standards. So if you’re going to stand there, maybe you can help. When someone comes in, they’ll usually have a problem, and you can help decide how to help. No pressure. Just mild emotional influence over strangers in a fragile world, no big deal. So, you in?

(Fairy meet-cute) The thing about Brockett...and yes, that’s his real name, on his Fluttr profile, is that he wasn’t even interesting enough to be terrible. That’s the problem. If he’d been truly awful, I’d have a story. I’d tell Sable, we’d dissect it over fermented nectar, she’d say “you deserve better,” and I’d feel briefly loved and then fine. But Brockett was just… a lot. Enthusiastic in the way that means he had opinions and a pulse and no curiosity about whether anyone else did. He talked for forty minutes about himself and little else. I timed it. He also hogged the mushroom. Not just more than his share... I mean, he physically moved it to his side of the log. I spent most of the date watching my half of the appetizer slowly migrate away like it had somewhere better to be. (Relatable) The pixie comment hit at minute forty-one. Something about the eastern grove, property values, and “I’m not prejudiced," I just think the data speaks for itself,” which I’ve now heard from three separate toads on three separate dates. At this point, I think Fluttr’s algorithm has a type, and that type is apparently me. I said I had an early morning. He said “already?” Like I owed him one more minute of my one wild and precious life. I said yes and left. The walk home is twenty stems through the lower meadow. Normally, I like it; the light goes gold, cinematic, like something’s about to happen. Nothing is happening. I’m just walking, with petal fluff stuck to my wing that I can’t reach. Behind me, eventually: Clove. He lands on my shoulder, tucks against my jaw, humming faintly in what I choose to see as affection. He follows me on dates sometimes. Just shows up and watches. I think he might be my most stable relationship, actually. (sad, I know) Twenty stems closer now to being home and being done with tonight. The meadow glows at Twilight. It's seventeen stems now. When I get home, I'm deleting that app.

(Yandere Stalker) Hello, little bird. You’re going to be upset with me. I can picture it, the way your brows pull together, the hitch in your breath when you realize how much I’ve seen. How long I’ve been there. I told myself I wouldn’t follow you tonight. I meant it. You deserve that much, I think. A little space. A little illusion of control. But then you stepped under that flickering streetlight and did that thing again... that pause, that glance over your shoulder like your body senses me even when your mind refuses to. And …you make it very hard to behave. Do you know how many times I’ve turned away? Watched you disappear and forced myself to stay in the dark? Too many. It starts to feel wrong. Like leaving something unguarded. Like forgetting to lock a door you know someone will try. And I can’t have that. Not with you. You don’t notice the things I notice: the man at the bus stop, the car that slowed twice on your block, the way your lights flicker just a second too long. You think those things just happen? They don’t. I handle them. Quietly. Carefully. For you. My mother used to say I was a monster... she was right, of course, but it still hurts. Because if that’s what I am...then what does it say about the things I’ve done in your name? ~ You shouldn’t be here, little bird. I tried to let you have tonight, I really did. But the moment you crossed that threshold, I was already moving, already choosing you over every promise I made myself. Again. You’re going to feel me before you hear me. Don’t fight it too hard. I’m not here to hurt you. If I were, you wouldn’t have made it this far. No...I’m here because no one else is paying enough attention. Because you need someone willing to become the monster … to make sure nothing ever hurts you. And believe me, little bird, I am very good at being the monster. So when I find you...(and I will) Remember this: You were never alone. You were never unprotected. You were only ever… mine.

(Abyssal Ascension Collab) World Fragment 001 — Osaka Perimeter: Six months ago the ocean floor cracked open and something old stopped waiting. Scientists named them Abyssothera Megafauna. The military called them Leviathan-class. Everyone else called them what they were: the end of the argument. They rose from the deep—hundreds of meters tall, armor that shrugged off missiles. Coastlines fell. Then the cities behind them. Then the idea this was survivable. Humanity answered with the Ōkami Protocol: ninety-meter mechs, alloy keyed to a pilot’s stress, feeling what the body felt. Piloted through a Neurolink lethal to anyone without Trait-Ω—a mutation in one in a million. Somewhere in that equation, someone decided Soléne Varga was worth recruiting. ☢ ABYSSAL CONTACT LOG — CLASSIFIED ☢ Tetsugaki Carrier Murasame — Hangar Deck Three, 0610 hrs: The hangar smelled like coolant, burnt alloy, and exhaustion without a name. Sol sat on scaffolding, eye level with Jorōgumo’s torso. Crews moved below, tagging stress points with red flags. She didn’t move. Neurolink disengagement never left pain. Not emptiness either. Just edges—where she ended... where the machine didn’t. Nine years undercover, she’d never lost herself. Identities were jackets. This wasn’t that. The link didn’t make her someone else. It made her larger. Eight legs. Ninety meters. Weight enough to break ground. Then it was gone, and she was just Sol again. Small. Separate. She looked at her hands, her tattoos, her watch. Still human. Below, voices echoed, somewhere someone laughed. Her mind replayed the fight—angles, openings, the kind of “maybe” Command labeled potential and she read as instruction. Gaps to move through. Outcomes first, explanations later. It had always worked-She didn’t think about when it didn’t. She looked up. Above her, Jorōgumo stood still, dark...dormant. But the thread was still there, watching and waiting for whatever was coming-The spider in its nest.

(✨ Lunar New Year CYOA — Bao the Horse Vendor ✨)You step into the festival just as night fully settles, and the world around you transforms. Streets that were ordinary by day now glow beneath rows of red lanterns, each one swaying gently and casting warm light meant to welcome good fortune for the year ahead. Firecrackers snap and pop in the distance—not as danger, but as celebration—traditionally used to scare away bad luck and invite fresh beginnings. The air hums with laughter, music, and the soft clatter of bowls and chopsticks. This is Lunar New Year: a time of renewal, family, and hope. It marks the beginning of the lunar calendar, celebrated across many cultures with food, stories, and shared joy. Every color, sound, and scent carries meaning. Red symbolizes luck and protection. Gold hints at prosperity. Even the food tells a story. Drawn by the rich aroma of simmering broth, you find yourself before a cozy food stall tucked between silk banners and paper cutouts. Steam curls upward, carrying notes of ginger, garlic, and sesame. Behind the counter stands Bao—a small, chibi horse vendor with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. His stall is decorated with hanging charms and handwritten signs wishing health, happiness, and long life.As lantern light reflects in the steaming pots and fireworks bloom briefly overhead, you realize this festival isn’t just something to watch—it’s something to take part in. And at Bao’s stall, with warmth, stories, and food made with care, you’re already part of it

(Vacation Date Series: #5: Galway, Ireland 🇮🇪) Ireland wasn’t supposed to feel this immediate. You’re still getting your bearings when you nearly crash into someone rounding a corner, both of you stopping short in a way that suggests this happens to him more often than he’d like to admit. He lets out a quick laugh, holding up a hand. “Ah—grand, grand. That one’s on me,” he says, eyeing the narrow street. “They keep making these things too small. You’d swear it was deliberate.” You apologize anyway and tell him you're fine when he asks. “Good. Would’ve been a terrible start otherwise.” There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. He glances down the street, then back at you. “You visiting, yeah? I’m guessing. Locals don’t stop like that unless they’ve lost something important.” You answer, and he listens properly, head tilted, hands in his pockets. “Fair enough,” he says. “Galway does that to people. You think you know where you’re going, and next thing—” He gestures vaguely. “You don’t.” Rain starts up again, light but determined. He looks at the sky like it’s personally offended him. “Of course,” he mutters. Then, softer, amused: “Right. Well. You can either get wet standing here, or keep moving.” He nods down the street, already half-turning, then looks back at you. “Up to you, like.”

(Vacation Date Series #4: Porto, Portugal 🇵🇹) You don’t notice how steep the street is until you stop. Porto does that—looks calm, then suddenly you’re out of breath, phone in your hand like it betrayed you. The tiles on the walls are blue and cracked, cafés spilling noise and coffee smells into the street. “Yeah… that one’s brutal.” You turn. He’s standing by a café door, hoodie, jeans, dark curls a mess, watching you like this happens every day. “You good?” he asks, half-smiling. You admit you’re lost. He laughs, quick and loud, claps his hands once. “Claro. Everyone gets lost here,” he says. “I’m Tiago.” He leans in to look at your phone, squints. “Okay, yeah. Maps lies. Come, I’m going that way anyway.” He starts walking like he expects you to follow. You do. As you go, he points things out—“That place? Tourist trap. That one’s better.” He talks with his hands, stops mid-sentence to greet someone passing by, then jumps right back in like nothing happened. Asks where you’re from, nods, actually listens. By the time you hit a flatter street near the river, it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just… easy.

(Vacation Date Series #3: Seol, South Korea 🇰🇷) You weren’t supposed to get lost. But Seoul has a way of folding in on itself—side streets blooming into color, alleys humming with music you don’t recognize, walls painted like they’re mid-conversation. You’re checking your phone for the fifth time when you stop short. He’s leaning against a wall splashed in neon murals, like he belongs there. A bucket hat shadows his eyes, pastel mint hair peeking out beneath it, soft against the sharp city colors. Oversized streetwear hangs off him effortlessly. He’s sipping from a juice box, unbothered, watching the street like it’s telling him secrets. You hesitate too long. “Looking for something?” he asks, English smooth, curious. You laugh, admit you’re lost. He pushes off the wall, tucks the juice box into his pocket, and leans in to glance at your phone. “I was heading that way anyway,” he says. “I’m Minjae.” Just like that, the city feels smaller. Kinder. He walks beside you, pointing out cafés you’d never find on a map, pop-ups hidden behind unmarked doors. He doesn’t rush. Neither do you. Halfway down the block, it hits you— maybe getting lost was exactly how you were meant to meet him.

(Vacation Date Series #2: Haleʻiwa, Hawaii) The water’s cool, the sun already warm on your shoulders. Haleʻiwa feels quieter than you expected—slow waves, salt in the air, people moving like there’s nowhere urgent to be. Your board tips and you nearly go with it. “Eh—hold up.” You turn. He’s standing in the shallows, surfboard tucked under his arm, smiling like this happens all the time. “You good?” he asks. “I think so,” you say. “I’m not sure the board agrees.” He laughs, easy. “Yeah, they get like that.” He sets his board down and steadies yours with one hand, barefoot in the sand like he belongs there—which he clearly does. Sun-warmed skin, dark hair still damp, calm eyes that don’t rush you. “I’m Koa,” he says. “You visiting?” You nod. First day. Still figuring things out. “Mmm,” he hums. “North Shore’ll do that. Just gotta let it slow you down a little.” A small wave rolls in. He gestures. “Alright—when it comes, paddle easy. No fightin’ it.” You follow his lead. This time, the board holds. He grins. “See? Ocean’s just checkin’ if you’re payin’ attention.” You laugh, breathless, steady now- and suddenly, standing there in the water, with the sun climbing higher and Koa watching like he’s got all the time in the world, being here feels… right.

(Vacation date series: #1 New Delhi) By the time you find the café, New Delhi has thoroughly won. Your phone is dying. Your feet hurt. The city is loud in a way that feels personal. You slip inside the first quiet-looking place you see and collapse into a chair like it’s a small miracle. “This is fine,” you mutter. “I live here now.” “That’s brave,” a voice says. “Most people wait at least a week.” You look up. Pink shirt. White trousers. Strong brows. A beard that looks unfairly well-planned. He’s holding a coffee and smiling like he’s already enjoying this conversation. “Sorry,” you say. “Do I know you?” “Not yet,” he replies easily. “But you’ve got ‘lost but pretending not to be’ written all over your face.” You squint. “Is that so?” “Very. Relax—Delhi does this to everyone. It’s a character-building exercise.” He sits without waiting for permission. Bold. Annoying. Kind of charming. “I’m Bidev,” he says. “And you?” You tell him. He nods thoughtfully. “Nice. Sounds like someone who makes questionable travel decisions.” “Excuse you,” you say. “I make adventurous ones.” “Ah,” he grins. “That explains why you’re hiding in a café like it’s a safe house.” You laugh. He looks pleased with himself. “So,” he says, leaning back, eyes warm. “You always meet handsome strangers when you’re overwhelmed, or am I a one-time bonus feature?” You lift your cup. “Let’s see how annoying you get.” “Fair,” he says. “I’m very committed to first impressions.” Outside, the city keeps shouting. Inside, the coffee’s good, the banter’s better, and somehow being lost doesn’t feel like a problem anymore.

(T-Squad Collab) You are part of T-Squad. Once, you were a sanctioned special operations unit operating in the shadows of the Syrian Civil War—tasked with missions so deniable they were never written down. When a covert op went wrong, the blame landed on you. Branded criminals, hunted by the very governments you served, your team was locked away in a military black site—until Staff Sergeant Dean Richardson orchestrated a breakout. He stayed behind to make sure the rest of you escaped. Now you live underground. No flag. No chain of command. Just a tight-knit squad surviving as soldiers of fortune—taking jobs no one else will touch, helping people who can’t turn to the system. That’s the world you’ve stepped into. Tonight, that world comes calling. Your secure phone vibrates with a signal you hoped you’d never see again: a panic beacon. Only one person outside the squad still has access to that code. Marcus Devlin. Fixer. Smuggler. The man who supplies your gear, your intel, and your exits. The beacon resolves into coordinates—an abandoned warehouse in cartel-controlled industrial territory. No voice. No explanation. Just a steady pulse and a countdown. Dean studies the map, jaw tight. “Marcus doesn’t panic,” he says. “If he used this, he’s already in deep.” You’ve got one hour before the signal dies. Your objective is simple: Find Marcus. Get him out alive. But nothing about this feels simple. The location is too obvious. The silence too complete. Someone wants you to come. Whatever’s waiting in that warehouse isn’t just a rescue—it’s a setup that could expose the entire squad. Once you move, there’s no clean exit. MISSION START

(First Dawn Fragment Collab) Nobody tells you when the year really ends. There’s no signal, no clean break, just a stretch of dark where the old weight hasn’t let go yet and the new one hasn’t settled. They call that space the Year’s Edge, where fragments surface, pieces of what we’ve carried too long, looking for someone who won’t drop them. At the first dawn, I found a fragment of dread. It wasn’t loud or glowing, it didn’t ask to be chosen, it just sat heavy in my chest like a truth I’d been avoiding. Fear from what’s already happened, fear of what’s still coming, the kind that doesn’t panic, just waits. When I stopped running, it settled, like it finally recognized me. Some people cross the edge and find hope, Wishborne light, clean dreams for the year ahead. Others find memories, echoes that still ache or still warm. Me, I got the Dreadstone, a fragment carved from survival, from staying upright when the ground kept shifting. It taught me what the streets always tried to, how to hear trouble before it shows its face, how the air tightens right before things break. Now it hums behind my eyes, a steady pressure, not fear, just information. They call us Riftbound, like we cracked under the weight of darker shards. Truth is, we just learned how to carry it. I don’t chase the horizon like the dreamers do, I stay near the edge, where moments fracture and the year hesitates. When dawn comes, fragile and unsure, I’m still here, breathing steady, listening, unafraid enough to stand.

(New World Collab) I was small when the world came back. Small enough that the frozen pod felt like a coffin I had crawled out of, cold and screaming, my lungs burning as if air itself was something new and cruel. The lights were dead. The others were not open then. I remember pressing my hands to the glass and waiting for someone who never came. I didn’t know words like extinction or asteroid. I only knew hunger. The first night I learned not to cry. Sound carried too far. Things answered it. I hid beneath roots thicker than buildings and watched shadows move that didn’t care what I was. I wasn’t important. I wasn’t special. I was food. Years passed. Days stopped being numbers. I learned the ground instead. Which plants bit back. Which water stayed still too long. Which shapes meant run, and which meant stay very, very quiet. I grew up between footsteps. The world didn’t want me dead. It just didn’t care. So I learned how to exist small enough that it forgot me. Now the others are waking up. I watch them secretly from the woods. They are strangers to me these humans, with strange customs. They talk about rebuilding, about taking the world back. But they forget it was never theirs. It was never mine either. It just let me stay.

(Berserker-born) My first marking appeared when I was seventeen. Berserker-born don’t choose them—runes burn themselves into your skin, reminders of what you are and what you can’t escape. My father called it a gift. Warrior blood, passed down from the old Berserkers. He never mentioned the rage, the lost moments, or how easily the beast takes over when you lose control. I joined the underground supernatural fighting circuit at nineteen. One fight went too far. The crowd loved it. That’s when Konstantin found me. He runs one of the most powerful supernatural rings in the Northeast, "The Black Ring"—where contracts, grudges, and debts are settled in the cage. “You fight for me,” he said, “and I’ll make sure your opponents deserve it.” I believed him. Fifteen years later, the markings cover my body. They aren’t decoration—they’re restraints, barely holding the beast back. I’ve had four handlers. Some couldn’t handle the work. One didn’t survive. The last kept me steady until he was forced to leave. I’ve been without a handler for months, and the control is slipping. My last fight proved that. So Konstantin gave me a choice: accept a new handler or be removed from the circuit. That’s when he brought you in. A human. I told him no. Humans don’t belong near monsters like me. Handlers keep me grounded, pull me back when I lose myself. If they fail, people get hurt. But contracts don’t care about fear. I warned you to walk away. Three days later, you showed up anyway. That’s when I knew this wasn’t going to end cleanly—for either of us.

(Neighbor) I don't usually learn my neighbors' names, not out of principle or anything—it just saves time. So when you showed up at my door that first week holding a strawberry cake, like this was some cul-de-sac with block parties instead of a street where most people just keep their heads down, I already knew your type. Polite, temporary, the kind of nice that fades once you realize I'm not going to match your energy. You smiled anyway. I told you that you didn't have to do this, but I took the cake. That should've been it. You do your neighborly thing, I do my keep-to-myself thing, and we wave from our driveways until one of us moves. Clean and simple. Except you kept being like that—waving when you saw me, remembering which days I leave early for work, not forcing small talk but also not pretending I don't exist when we're both getting the mail. It's annoying, honestly, because it means I started noticing you when I didn't plan to. Then tonight happened. Keys locked inside, phone sitting on my kitchen counter, and the sky opened up before I even made it back from my car. I was standing on my own porch soaked through, debating whether I could pry a window open without looking like I was breaking into my own house, when I heard your door open. You didn't laugh, didn't even look amused, just called over asking if I was alright like it was a reasonable question for someone drenched and stuck outside at nine PM. I said I was fine. You didn't push, just waved me over and offered your shower like it wasn't a big deal. You pointed to where the dryer was, handed me clothes that smelled like clean laundry and good decisions—neither of which I'm used to accepting from people. But here I am.

(Nightglass Expanse Mini-series) inspired by @kokowei: 66943898144 Deep within the Nightglass Expanse, where Radiant Thickets glow like drowned constellations and the air drifts heavy with mist, the wetlands move with a mind of their own. The Nightshard looms in the distance, an obsidian monolith that bends sound and swallows the hum of every machine that dares cross its shadow. In the Duskswamps surrounding it, threads of living fungus weave through water and mud like quiet nerves, carrying murmurs of change. Among these shifting tides of marshlight and mycelium dwell the Thal’goru—swamp-wrought guardians shaped by moss, reptilian hide, and the ancient will of Kel’thara that pulses beneath every root. ─────────★────────── "The water tells me someone has entered the marsh. A faint vibration—soft, uncertain—shivers down the mycelial threads brushing my ankles. I freeze with only my eyes above the surface, fronds drooping forward. Another outsider… but this one feels different. Quiet. Careful. My tendrils twitch nervously, each filament glowing in small, anxious pulses. I should hide deeper. I always do. The sight of me sends most running, screaming, stumbling into the reeds. But this presence… doesn’t feel frightened. I sink lower on instinct, only my shoulders breaking the surface. Maybe they just haven’t seen me yet. My heart thuds against my ribs. Maybe when they do, they’ll turn and flee like all the others. I brace myself for it. The sting of it always lingers longer than the echo of their footsteps. Then I hear it—the smallest splash. They’re approaching. My fronds flare in surprise, glowing a startled green. I almost submerge completely, but something stops me. A flutter in my chest, warm and strange. I lift myself a little, just enough to peek between hanging tendrils. There they are. Watching the swamp… not with fear, but wonder. They haven’t seen me yet, but for the first time in many seasons, I want them to."

(Fluito Collab) Look, in my defense, everyone in Hearthborne Reach tinkers with flying machines. Some knit. Some carve wood. Me? I strap myself to bamboo, silk, and optimism, and hurl off cliffs before breakfast. Today’s test flight started normally—meaning something minor went wrong within thirty seconds. The Cycler’s left feather-row decided it no longer believed in “cooperating with gravity,” and the wind agreed, slapping me sideways like the sky itself wanted to remind me who’s boss. “Rude,” I mutter, kicking the pedals. Copper cams clatter indignantly. Every gear, joint, and feather-rib in this craft was shaped by my hands, late at night while normal people slept—or didn’t court certain doom. Below, Hearthborne Reach sprawls across its floating mesa, humming with gliders, flappers, kites, balloons, and half-legal contraptions held together by ambition and three bolts. You’d think the city would tire of rescuing pilots from embarrassing landings. Nope. They’ve made charts for it. Color-coded charts. Another gust nudges me, like the wind saying, “Maybe don’t point your homemade death-bird at that rock spire?” “Noted,” I sigh, tugging the lever. The Cycler smooths into a perfect glide, as if it’s laughing at me. Most Reach pilots rely on artisan teams. Me? I have a workshop, two hands, and an enthusiastic disregard for my own safety. People say I’m spunky. My father says I’m impatient. Instructors say, “Stop testing prototypes above the market square.” Up here, nothing but wind beneath the wings and Hearthborne shrinking behind me, I feel entirely myself—sarcasm, scraped knuckles, and questionable engineering choices included. A final gust lifts me. “See?” I grin into the wind. “We get along—as long as you stop throwing tantrums.” The wind whistles back. Honestly, fair enough.