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our heart's ablaze

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meghaera



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Number of posts : 7


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BerichtOnderwerp: our heart's ablaze za 6 feb 2016 - 13:20




Megs.

Meghaera Serefine - "burning fire"

Bring me your war—
split open my mouth and make me
I’ll let the sea seep through me until
its machine is nothing but rust.

“I tried to hold these secrets inside me
My mind’s like a deadly disease”

Her veins were filled with honey and sugar, but her nerves were made of steel.

She is the desert sand, hot and dry and impossible to shake out. Everything is done in a rush, messily, without much thought, as if rushing to beat an unknown ultimatum. She is sharp too, her words the sort that don’t hurt straight away but will leave you laying awake in bed all night replaying them in your head. Royalty means very little to her, it is simply an obstacle in the way of her bid for greatness, a war against rules and regulations of which she is determined to win.

Meg is neither a leader nor a follower. While one may expect her to be a leader because of her high expectations and thirst for power and knowledge, or to be a follower because of her show of being submissive and pleasant, she tends to deviate from the path to create her own. She likes being in control of her life and decisions and rarely takes other’s opinion, but never sets herself as an example.

A region of chaos and dying embers. She liked it there.

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<center><div style="color:#999; font-family:open sans; font-size:10px; line-height:19px; width:300px; text-align:justify; padding-bottom:45px; font-weight:300;">Megs.

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meghaera



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Number of posts : 7


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BerichtOnderwerp: Re: our heart's ablaze do 11 feb 2016 - 20:13



Ims.

Imogen Eloïse Marselisse (derived from Gaelic meaning "maiden")

with her feet on the ground, and her head in the clouds

Imogen was not born with a storm in her veins, but weak fingers and eyes that burned with waiting, with a wanting to spend each endless day to the brim. A girl who wished to spend her afternoons with simple laughter born of nothingness, her mother pulling at the skin of her forehead as she would style her daughter’s hair in braids and anything she could imagine. She was a girl who would run in pouring rain, a girl who ran with others her age, their lips held between teeth as they listened to the workings of the world, listened to the gossip of the city while picking flowers to braid in their hair.

As a child she was bright and imaginative, forgiving and creative, despite her parents’ neglect of her existence. She resulted in letting fiction, fantasy and theory fill in for their absence, always having a preference for the unknown. She was an only child, an excellent problem-solver, growing up in a large and empty mansion with just the help as company. However, with plenty of books and room to roam, she was never a bored kid. As she grew, she learned never to grow an attachment to those around her, because even the help were temporary, but that didn’t stop her from keeping to her books and maps and theories like a lifeline.

To fend off all advances and every person that would try to trick her into ruining her parents’ reputations, she became colder. She still was the young girl who held a love for fantasy and invention, but her mind quickly adapted to the dark world she was born into. One day while at a prestigious gala, Imogen excused herself to the bathroom, not knowing what was to lie ahead: men – friends of her father –, significantly larger than her, drunk with violent desire. As much as she had a way with words, she knew there was no way to talk herself out of this situation, and despite her sharp tongue she found herself beaten and broken on the bathroom floor, her innocence stolen with a rough hand. One sharp hit to head knocked her into a black out, and the next thing she knew the pain was replaced with soothing waves.


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Ims.

Imogen Eloïse Marselisse (derived from Gaelic inghean meaning "maiden")

with her feet on the ground, and her head in the clouds

Imogen was not born with a storm in her veins, but weak fingers and eyes that burned with waiting, with a wanting to spend each endless day to the brim. A girl who wished to spend her afternoons with simple laughter born of nothingness, her mother pulling at the skin of her forehead as she would style her daughter’s hair in braids and anything she could imagine. She was a girl who would run in pouring rain, a girl who ran with others her age, their lips held between teeth as they listened to the workings of the world, listened to the gossip of the city while picking flowers to braid in their hair.

As a child she was bright and imaginative, forgiving and creative, despite her parents’ neglect of her existence. She resulted in letting fiction, fantasy and theory fill in for their absence, always having a preference for the unknown. She was an only child, an excellent problem-solver, growing up in a large and empty mansion with just the help as company. However, with plenty of books and room to roam, she was never a bored kid. As she grew, she learned never to grow an attachment to those around her, because even the help were temporary, but that didn’t stop her from keeping to her books and maps and theories like a lifeline.

To fend off all advances and every person that would try to trick her into ruining her parents’ reputations, she became colder. She still was the young girl who held a love for fantasy and invention, but her mind quickly adapted to the dark world she was born into. One day while at a prestigious gala, Imogen excused herself to the bathroom, not knowing what was to lie ahead: men – friends of her father –, significantly larger than her, drunk with violent desire. As much as she had a way with words, she knew there was no way to talk herself out of this situation, and despite her sharp tongue she found herself beaten and broken on the bathroom floor, her innocence stolen with a rough hand. One sharp hit to head knocked her into a black out, and the next thing she knew the pain was replaced with soothing waves.

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