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[arcanakrp-blog]

LEE YURA – THE MAGICIAN. AGENT 01.

                                                  [   FILE TYPE: CLASSIFIED   ]

//: LOADING PROFILE: LEE YURA ...

international age: 22 birthplace: ansan, south korea arcana: the magician team number: two

//: LOADING MUTATION: CHAOS MAGIC  ...

application one: magical energy manipulation — Above her other facets of power, this the subset that is most largely without definition - albeit all of Yura’s power defies convention explanation - as the manifestation of energy manipulation is so wide and varied, it has no convenient terminology. Through concentrated mental efforts, Yura is able to harness the undectable but ever-present magical energy that exists without detection by the average human, and apply it in ways that are directly correlated to what can be called chaos - making her a black cat, a bad omen, an overturned shaker of salt when her powers are called upon. It has been described by Yura as having a spiritual aspect, often leaving her feeling as though she is sapping from an esoteric power in order to utilize it to her own needs. Manifestations of this are things like doors lucking suddenly, walls deconstructing and toppling, even bones breaking; duly, raw energy can be utilized in offensive, impactful blasts. More recently, Yura has been working on “infecting” the preexisting magical energy surrounding any individual or being with her will, lending to what could be called a layman’s “curse” or “hex” - essentially, casting bad luck on a person, or driving their actions by way of directing the energy flowing through them.

application two: magical energy constructs — A more obvious expression of her magic, given that constructs created from this application are generally physically present and obvious to the naked eye. Yura often forges weapons or objects pertaining to the situation at hand, whose underlying magical property can be a large asset: hammers, arrows, anything physical, is often forged impossibly strong - yet both the tensile strength of the object and tangibility can regress and entirely fade as she runs out of mental and physical steam. Due to a whimsical, creative mind, Yura applies constructs in nontraditional manners on the days her control is secure enough to do so: a net of steel falling from the sky, an anvil tied to a mans ankle, etc. Somewhere between her “manipulation” and “construction” of chaos magic she is able to produce forcefield-like shields, though they are extremely weak to repeated attack.

application three: symbol/rune guided magic — The aspect Yura is most fascinated by, though perhaps the least applicable as an offensive move due to the preparation aspect of this subdivision, and the weakest in actual battle. Requiring study, trial, and error (most usually the latter), Yura is able to summon more concentrated, but specific aspects of magic via written symbols or runes. These designs can be implemented on anything, so long as the image does not fade entirely – paper, walls, ceilings, her own flesh. Any one specific rune can only manifest one power, and it is rare that Yura can anticipate which will be the most helpful in any given mission. The actual symbols tied to different effects are forged by Yura’s own construction, or taken from existing languages.

overall strengths and weaknesses:

— Like a dark rose twining itself around Yura’s lungs, magic and Yura are forced to cohabitate as one entity. Even when not in battle or training, she feels it inside her with every breath she takes. Unlike many of the other Arcana’s powers, this is one that is not exclusively her own, and as such is not as reliable or easily controlled by the user. Her destructive power is nigh unmatchable amongst the other agents, but with that superlative comes the weariness of her inability to make distinctions of good and bad guy in these scenarios – she can overturn a car, but not entirely ensure the kidnapped persons within it remain safe while the criminals perish. Use is more soul-draining than anything else in terms of what magic actually does to Yura, but as it is through her unmitigated emotions that it can most effectively manifest, her mental capacity is usually the first to overload. Contrary to assumption, it is largely easier for Yura to affect things on a larger scale than control details - that is to say, she would potentially have an easier time forcing all the locks of every door in a building to simultaneously fall off than to manifest a perfect key to pick one. This is due to the coexistence and only partial-ownership she has over magic, which is rarely pliable and never consolatory. She has taken to always carrying charcoal and a small notebook with her to best practice her runes, and prepare for incoming “visions” that may bring with them new symbols.

//: LOADING HISTORY ..

PRE-MUTATION

i. you are born

everything is red. the walls, the low-hanging canvas sky, the place she is leaving. lee yura carved her mother’s womb into a bloody and torn place, and it is here that she first learned bitterness. she is born unlucky. the fourth day of the fourth month, and she is marked. this is how it was always meant to be. her mother doesn’t care about it, but her father does. her father doesn’t care about her, but her mother does. she is their circus rite, a performance ritual: conceived as if by magic, the result of a one-night-only two-for-one ticket to a beautiful dance. she has her mother’s name because her father will not give her his, but what a greedy, greedy thing she is even now – and she steals his eyes and the slant of his jaw anyway.

she does not even ask permission. she just takes.

ii. you are three weeks old

they will tell her that she was a noisy child, always wailing, greedy and loud, a pale bundle of noise and need. be not ashamed of this, child. it is your right to demand the world upright. 

iii. you are stretching into the shape of your father’s shadow

she is his child and they all know it, and she knows it, but the bastard of a star is worse still than the bastard of no one: a stain on his honour, night sky across his shine. he walks by her with nothing in his eyes and nothing on his face and she feels everything. and the rest of them are silent.

the rest of them are not so cruel when there is no audience: they pet her hair and palm over honey cakes, watching how she climbs the silks like she was born in their chrysalis, then telling her where to better place your feet so as to climb farther. she holds their words like precious stones, placing the collection in a satchel and tying it around her neck. there are other children, but she is the most of them. she is the circus’s magic as well as its dregs; the shine of spotlight and the bloody knuckles. watching from in the rafters, somewhere between angel and rat, sleeping under the theatre seats because mother cannot afford a babysitter. this tent, these people, they raise her. she twirls plates on sticks when she is bored and stretches with the acrobats. this is the first kind of love she learns how to accumulate, handing out the correct slices of herself to each of them, becoming a daughter twelve times over. she is the daughter of this madness, and oh it becomes her.

but he still does not look at her. he is her father, but she is not his.

iv. you are eight, and it is time

but she is his, and to see her is to know it. precocious and stubborn and demanding, taking his silhouette now, ignoring the warnings and chastising to climb defiantly higher and move quicker. she learns his tricks, studying with the many aunts and uncles that have adopted her – still slower than him yet, but she is young, and even the elders stop to watch when you start moving.

when she climbs on his stage, it is with feet placed apart and elbows out. she is taking up space. ready to be held, ready to be hit.

he does hit her, later. but it is in the privacy of his own room, and she has won.

she is going to be a great, too.

v. you are nine, and it is not love

it will never be love, but he watches her now. younger than her are performers made here, and this art is as much hereditary as it is practice. his talent and ferocity is in her. they play noughts and crosses at night, and he does not let her win. three strikes, you’re out. he gives no second chances, no turned blind eye for age or temperance. she wins, she loses, but most often it is a loss. she will think this is because he wants to remind her that he will always win, but she’s wrong. he is teaching how to bruise and stand.

vi. you are ten, and the curtain drops

the world gets smaller as she cross it on the magic carpet of that towering red tent. she sees it all. weaned on the wonders of her own traditions, they are no longer special. then, somewhere along a cold coast with too much fog, you see a man make things out of thin air, and you know what real magic is.

vii. you are thirteen, and you do what they ask of you

and they ask everything. she becomes the embellishments, the minor roles, the gaps and the sick spaces. and in the dark, she makes her own courses and studies. 

viii. you are sixteen, and with your body you do wonders but with your mind you work miracles. 

she is a star now, full and bright and brimming with magick. she takes the shapes no one else can, willing her body into art. no longer the filler, she is the marbled meat.

before the shows, after the shows, it does not matter: she lives on stages across the world in her mind’s eye, craving new angles and newer ideas. she wants the world in a way that is not quite hungry but all the way starving; desperate, longing, hoping. she thinks there is something waiting for her just beyond the horizon, hidden under the tongue of the sky like a melting candy. 

but every time, the answer is no. you belong here.

viiii. you are seventeen, and you petition for your right to glory

i will be the first, she says, and that should appeal to him – the first of anything is always something. she knows she is good enough; better than that, even. she has the world’s best secrets inside you, collected over the years from every place imaginable, and they are wriggling like bees at the ends of her fingers.

silence, he tells her. ‘daughter’ leaves his teeth for the first time, so in shock she tries to be one. duty. honour. respect.

she swallows the blood from biting her tongue and waits.

x. you are eighteen. 

it doesn’t last long.

father hits her and calls her daughter. disobedient daughter.

you swallow your blood again and wait. 

wait. 

the audience is hushed.

xi. you are eighteen, and leave in fire

the real kind. no more goddamn poetry. mother catches her playing with matchsticks and weep tears that turn to gasoline on the floor. she smokes out their tents and leaves.

riotous applause.

xii. you are nineteen, and you do what you are made for

she works in the spaces too delicate for anyone else, making new names and taking new stories with each passing month. becoming their wives (lives) for a day, dream for a weekend, a month. they love her, and she loves them.

no one with correct knowledge would dare call it thievery. it’s not even a lie. it’s something far more grand. the only criminality about this is the way she pockets their watches when they aren’t looking, but that’s only for the thrill, not the shine. the warmth she bestows, the joy - it’s sleight of hand, grand plans and escapades. it’s making use of the only truth she’s ever known: gilt lies. magic.

she is no longer a girl, and you never took the shape of a woman. she is something else, and she is beautiful.

xiii. you are nineteen, and you meet a man who knows how to cheat death.

maybe that is an exaggeration, but he cheated her, so maybe not. he is tall and handsome and has fast hands and a slow smile. when you try to take his wallet, he catches your hand. fox-girl, he calls her. and then she’s kissed.

xiv. you are in love. fuck.

he says he’s good with cards, but that’s not all of it. what he means is: he’s good with his fingers, his instincts, and his lies, but he’s even better with everyone else’s – including hers. two ends of the same snake, they chase one another in circles, waiting to make the other lose while forgetting what winning feels like.

so she sleeps in his bed a little and wear his gifts and tries to make him lose, but mostly they just kiss. and it’s not so bad. you are a beautiful team. a two-person empire.

he gives her a ring and says she’s the most beautiful stranger he’s ever met.

xv. you are twenty, and you love him. you do. but.

but there is a wedding in two months, and the games are slowing down because he wants to take care of her, and her fingers ache from lack of use, and she are not made for this. she is too young; has no desire for a throne, she wants to melt it down and barter with its bars. so when the dream calls, with a message she doesn’t remember and a proposition she could refuse, she doesn’t. like all circus girls, she takes it as a sign.

and she waits.

POST-MUTATION

xvi. you are twenty, and they come for you.

it doesn’t take much to die in this town, especially not in her and her lover’s court. yura and yeo take the wrong game, put their hand in the wrong pot, and suddenly it’s all plata o plomo without the choice. because it can only be lead, will only ever be lead. and she may want to leave him, but she still loves him. so as he leaps cover her body from bullets, she brings the house down around them.  they’ll say it’s a miracle you both survived. but maybe it’s something else entirely. like a dark cloud, like rain water, like a promise, they come. marya morevna’s ravens falling outside the window, and one day she opens the door looking for a familiar face and finding someone else entirely. they talk, she opens the door wider. when she invites them in for tea they stutter in surprise but come anyway. (your kindness in the face of danger is surprising, girl).

she does not take much convincing, but that’s because a girl that knows herself as intimately as she knows herself does not look to others for validation. they are only telling her what’s she’s long been expecting - been hoping for.

this is a reckoning.

a coming home.

xvii. you leave

with a note, but no explanation. she loves him, but that is not enough.

xviii. you arrive

among the first in these hallowed halls, she decides to bleed colour, sing warmth into the white spaces: mark everything with her fingerprints, give it humanity. it’s not what they expect, this angular approach to acceptance, to bringing other people in, but it works. the more people that arrive the stronger she grows, fed by genuine emotion and the relationships meant to build.

she’s never been happier. this is not the circus, not the city, not the man. this is adventures waiting to happen and something unexpected at every corner.

xxix. you live

welcome to the story of the girl who lived.

this is going to be her greatest act yet.

[suburbiakrp-blog]

WELCOME TO JUKJEON, SONG JIHO !

your place at starvilla 204 is all ready for you, we hope you enjoy your stay. citizens, let’s welcome our new neighborhood software developer !

HOW HAS JUKJEON BEEN TREATING YOU THE PAST 2 YEARS ?

finding it rather tame and almost boring, jiho has never thought much of jukjeon, rather finding herself pining more for her own home, but allowing herself to settle as this is the only middle ground from her quiet home back in the countryside, and the bustling city where she spent her college years. as much as she’s grown ambivalent to it, she’s found small comforts in the area—it’s quiet at night so she sleeps better, the park nearby where she takes nightly walks to clear her thoughts, there’s just enough to keep busy without it being overwhelming with stores stacked on top of stores. likewise the diversity in the people among her has made her feel much better about the area. though she can’t see herself staying in jukjeon forever, for now she supposes it’s just what she needs to start her life.

TELL US MORE ABOUT YOURSELF !

the eldest child, the golden child. the child where expectations, wishes, dreams, hopes are pushed onto them without their say so from the moment they come into the world. while they may be the envy of other parents or even other kids—especially those where they’re the younger of other siblings, the eldest children of a family often bear the most responsibility and the most stress.

such was the case for jiho.

her parents had never been over zealous or overly conservative in their thoughts, just a middle class couple running a restaurant in the countryside where they and their families had been for many generations. however, at the birth of their first child and realizing that they wanted their children to live more exciting and fulfilling lives than they, they became very insistent that jiho grow up to accomplish more.

at first she did it all—after all, all little children wish to do is please and make their parents proud, to get the look of approval, the boasting and bragging to family and friends. and for a long time, that’s what jiho desperately sought out. when her younger brother was born, a new responsibility was put into her hands, to set the example, to lead the path for him no matter what.

as she got older, the expectations and responsibilities got heavier. she needed to place well in school, she needed to keep her younger brother out of trouble, she needed to help out at the restaurant, she needed to start looking into colleges, she needed to pass her entrance exams—the list went on and on, driving the young girl to intense stress that she hid with a smile. something about her feelings made her insecure and unsure of herself, and though in recent years her parents had eased up on her, jiho still felt anxiety and felt pressured to do well, and to keep the fears she had about constantly needing to do well hidden.

college was more of a release as she went into seoul for computer science. though the major was no relief at all, the stress was still very present, but having the space and time to navigate it all without the eyes of her parents made her feel more at ease. while she was almost always holed up in her room with her eyes glued to a screen, the times she ventured out for group projects to develop something, or their major had a dinner or something, jiho was always the hilariously blunt and to the point student always willing lend a hand (if it was reasonable).

graduation saw her whole family come into the city to congratulate her, and the swelling pride in her chest that she had almost lived up to what her parents had wanted, but trying to let go of the need to please anybody and live up to anybody’s expectations other than her own. as much as she had missed home, she had come to the decision she needed more time to figure out who she was by herself, plus she couldn’t get a job with her degree back home.

the move to jukjeon was uneventful, paying what she felt was a bit too much money for such a small apartment, but not willing to spend more on a family sized one. her move to jukjeon wasn’t a solo deal though—her younger brother was now entering college at dankook university. “so you can look after each other,” her parents insisted when she questioned why he couldn’t go somewhere else, but jiho knew it was more so to look after him more than anything else.

it’s been two years since she’s settled in jukjeon, found a job at a startup company that pays decently well, and has been playing older sister and mom to her little brother while trying to keep her own personal life private from him. that’s not to say she’s been living a crazy life (it is the suburbs after all), but there’s always things she’s been playing around with or exploring the idea of with her new sense of freedom she would rather keep to herself.

[arcanakrp-blog]

LEE YURA – THE EMPRESS. AGENT 03.

                                                   [   FILE TYPE: CLASSIFIED   ]

//: LOADING PROFILE: LEE YURA ...

international age: 22 birthplace: ansan, south korea arcana: the empress team number: one

//: LOADING MUTATION: WEAPONS PROFICIENCY ...

application one: enhanced marksmanship — Like the performance of knife-throwing she learned as a child in the circus, this is an accuracy that looks both frightening and improbable - as it should be. Capable of aiming and hitting targets of movement, high speed, or distance with exceptional accuracy, this is Yura’s ability to achieve results via any weapon that requires aiming before hitting its target - e.g. guns, knives, bow and arrow, etc.

application two: weapon calling — Her favourite ability by far, this is a simplistic application that allows Yura to attract weapons to her by a limited version of telepathy. This can be used to draw weapons out of enemy hands and simply dump what she cannot hold at her feet, but largely and more frequently it can be utilized to call her own weapon back to her.

application three: adoptive muscle memory — By nature of seeing a human individual work any sort of weapon, she learns the mechanics of it on sight, allowing her to replicate the use of it immediately - even if she has never before heard of or touched said weapon.

overall strengths and weaknesses: — Yura’s greatest strength is the creativity which which she utilizes her power: it’s become a favourite trick of hers to use weapon calling in a non-traditional way, throwing blunt or sharp objects (with the aid of her enhanced marksmanship) at an angle that, when calling them back to her a moment later, will cause damage to whomever is around her - making the return call as effective as the initial throw. Similarly she enjoys employing her enhanced marksmanship in ways that are unexpected; a rope or whip can be considered a weapon, and creating exceptionally effective lassos or traps out of said objects is rarely expected.

But no matter the creativity, there is certainly a limited scope to her power. She must have an unobstructed and undistracted view of someone using a weapon in order for her muscles to adapt to it, and at the moment this is largely limited to the training exercises she undergoes, as learning new weapons in the heat of a mission rarely works as the conditions aren’t ideal. Her weapon calling can be abused by enemies if they get their hands on it midair before it returns to her, and while she is practiced at returning her own weapon to her, she is still slightly unpredictable in terms of snatching weapons out of another’s hands - she cannot always control how many she can grab, or where they land.

//: LOADING HISTORY ..

PRE-MUTATION

i. you are born

everything is red. the walls, the low-hanging canvas sky, the place she is leaving. lee yura carved her mother’s womb into a bloody and torn place, and it is here that she first learned bitterness. she is born unlucky. the fourth day of the fourth month, and she is marked. this is how it was always meant to be. her mother doesn’t care about it, but her father does. her father doesn’t care about her, but her mother does. she is their circus rite, a performance ritual: conceived as if by magic, the result of a one-night-only two-for-one ticket to a beautiful dance. she has her mother’s name because her father will not give her his, but what a greedy, greedy thing she is even now – and she steals his eyes and the slant of his jaw anyway.

she does not even ask permission. she just takes.

ii. you are three weeks old

they will tell her that she was a noisy child, always wailing, greedy and loud, a pale bundle of noise and need. be not ashamed of this, child. it is your right to demand the world upright. 

iii. you are stretching into the shape of your father’s shadow

she is his child and they all know it, and she knows it, but the bastard of a star is worse still than the bastard of no one: a stain on his honour, night sky across his shine. he walks by her with nothing in his eyes and nothing on his face and she feels everything. and the rest of them are silent.

the rest of them are not so cruel when there is no audience: they pet her hair and palm over honey cakes, watching how she climbs the silks like she was born in their chrysalis, then telling her where to better place your feet so as to climb farther. she holds their words like precious stones, placing the collection in a satchel and tying it around her neck. there are other children, but she is the most of them. she is the circus’s magic as well as its dregs; the shine of spotlight and the bloody knuckles. watching from in the rafters, somewhere between angel and rat, sleeping under the theatre seats because mother cannot afford a babysitter. this tent, these people, they raise her. she twirls plates on sticks when she is bored and stretches with the acrobats. this is the first kind of love she learns how to accumulate, handing out the correct slices of herself to each of them, becoming a daughter twelve times over. she is the daughter of this madness, and oh it becomes her.

but he still does not look at her. he is her father, but she is not his.

iv. you are eight, and it is time

but she is his, and to see her is to know it. precocious and stubborn and demanding, taking his silhouette now, ignoring the warnings and chastising to climb defiantly higher and move quicker. she learns his tricks, studying with the many aunts and uncles that have adopted her – still slower than him yet, but she is young, and even the elders stop to watch when you start moving.

when she climbs on his stage, it is with feet placed apart and elbows out. she is taking up space. ready to be held, ready to be hit.

he does hit her, later. but it is in the privacy of his own room, and she has won.

she is going to be a great, too.

v. you are nine, and it is not love

it will never be love, but he watches her now. younger than her are performers made here, and this art is as much hereditary as it is practice. his talent and ferocity is in her. they play noughts and crosses at night, and he does not let her win. three strikes, you’re out. he gives no second chances, no turned blind eye for age or temperance. she wins, she loses, but most often it is a loss. she will think this is because he wants to remind her that he will always win, but she’s wrong. he is teaching how to bruise and stand.

vi. you are ten, and the curtain drops

the world gets smaller as she cross it on the magic carpet of that towering red tent. she sees it all. weaned on the wonders of her own traditions, they are no longer special. then, somewhere along a cold coast with too much fog, you see a man make things out of thin air, and you know what real magic is.

vii. you are thirteen, and you do what they ask of you

and they ask everything. she becomes the embellishments, the minor roles, the gaps and the sick spaces. and in the dark, she makes her own courses and studies. 

viii. you are sixteen, and with your body you do wonders but with your mind you work miracles. 

she is a star now, full and bright and brimming with magick. she takes the shapes no one else can, willing her body into art. no longer the filler, she is the marbled meat.

before the shows, after the shows, it does not matter: she lives on stages across the world in her mind’s eye, craving new angles and newer ideas. she wants the world in a way that is not quite hungry but all the way starving; desperate, longing, hoping. she thinks there is something waiting for her just beyond the horizon, hidden under the tongue of the sky like a melting candy. 

but every time, the answer is no. you belong here.

viiii. you are seventeen, and you petition for your right to glory

i will be the first, she says, and that should appeal to him – the first of anything is always something. she knows she is good enough; better than that, even. she has the world’s best secrets inside you, collected over the years from every place imaginable, and they are wriggling like bees at the ends of her fingers.

silence, he tells her. ‘daughter’ leaves his teeth for the first time, so in shock she tries to be one. duty. honour. respect.

she swallows the blood from biting her tongue and waits.

x. you are eighteen. 

it doesn’t last long.

father hits her and calls her daughter. disobedient daughter.

you swallow your blood again and wait. 

wait. 

the audience is hushed.

xi. you are eighteen, and leave in fire

the real kind. no more goddamn poetry. mother catches her playing with matchsticks and weep tears that turn to gasoline on the floor. she smokes out their tents and leaves.

riotous applause.

xii. you are nineteen, and you do what you are made for

she works in the spaces too delicate for anyone else, making new names and taking new stories with each passing month. becoming their wives (lives) for a day, dream for a weekend, a month. they love her, and she loves them.

no one with correct knowledge would dare call it thievery. it’s not even a lie. it’s something far more grand. the only criminality about this is the way she pockets their watches when they aren’t looking, but that’s only for the thrill, not the shine. the warmth she bestows, the joy - it’s sleight of hand, grand plans and escapades. it’s making use of the only truth she’s ever known: gilt lies. magic.

she is no longer a girl, and you never took the shape of a woman. she is something else, and she is beautiful.

xiii. you are nineteen, and you meet a man who knows how to cheat death.

maybe that is an exaggeration, but he cheated her, so maybe not. he is tall and handsome and has fast hands and a slow smile. when you try to take his wallet, he catches your hand. fox-girl, he calls her. and then she’s kissed.

xiv. you are in love. fuck.

he says he’s good with cards, but that’s not all of it. what he means is: he’s good with his fingers, his instincts, and his lies, but he’s even better with everyone else’s – including hers. two ends of the same snake, they chase one another in circles, waiting to make the other lose while forgetting what winning feels like.

so she sleeps in his bed a little and wear his gifts and tries to make him lose, but mostly they just kiss. and it’s not so bad. you are a beautiful team. a two-person empire.

he gives her a ring and says she’s the most beautiful stranger he’s ever met.

xv. you are twenty, and you love him. you do. but.

but there is a wedding in two months, and the games are slowing down because he wants to take care of her, and her fingers ache from lack of use, and she are not made for this. she is too young; has no desire for a throne, she wants to melt it down and barter with its bars. so when the dream calls, with a message she doesn’t remember and a proposition she could refuse, she doesn’t. like all circus girls, she takes it as a sign.

and she waits.

POST-MUTATION

xvi. you are twenty, and they come for you.

like a dark cloud, like rain water, like a promise, they come. marya morevna’s ravens falling outside the window, and one day she opens the door looking for a familiar face and finding someone else entirely. they talk, she opens the door wider. when she invites them in for tea they stutter in surprise but come anyway. (your kindness in the face of danger is surprising, girl).

she does not take much convincing, but that’s because a girl that knows herself as intimately as she knows herself does not look to others for validation. they are only telling her what’s she’s long been expecting - been hoping for.

this is a reckoning.

a coming home.

xvii. you leave

with a note, but no explanation. she loves him, but that is not enough.

xviii. you arrive

among the first in these hallowed halls, she decides to bleed colour, sing warmth into the white spaces: mark everything with her fingerprints, give it humanity. it’s not what they expect, this angular approach to acceptance, to bringing other people in, but it works. the more people that arrive the stronger she grows, fed by genuine emotion and the relationships meant to build.

she’s never been happier. this is not the circus, not the city, not the man. this is adventures waiting to happen and something unexpected at every corner.

xxix. you live

welcome to the story of the girl who lived.

this is going to be her greatest act yet.