Friday, February 17th
Maga'namu came through on his word. Every pattern I gave him was crafted with care, creating a suit of armour that will help guard my life in the thick of battle.
As I reflected in the water's of the Southfury river, I couldn't help but stare back through the slits of the spiked helmet. She was layered in a flexible metal skin of black and red, with a red pulsing shield that beat like a vein. This woman no longer frightened me. Instead, I gazed upon her in compassion and respect, and gesticulated my acceptance with a quiet nod.
The fires of change had stolen and consumed, and within the dust of its path, my present self is formed: A once peaceful woman who learned to fight to defend her love, who has chosen to continue fighting long after her love had died. Some may consider this influence corrupting, but we are never destined to be static beings. Our mind and spirit are also subjected to development.
It is a cruel but poetic forward momentum, a rhythmic consumption of flames to nurture a tired spirit. With the heat of war, it infuses a warm passion in what might have otherwise grown cold and wintery. I fight not only for the Horde, for Marina's future or for clan, but to also keep my heart thriving and beating. Without the heartache and joy of an enduring love and breeding conflict, we grow absent and merely exist in this world, instead of living in it.
My change is indeed a fire.
All good things must come to an end. But within us is the power to create new beginnings, that will lead to new journeys that will texture our lives.
When those stories come to an end, It is up to us if we close that book with a tear or a smile, before we put it back on the shelf to never touch again.
This story is not a tragedy. It is a love story.
One that has come to an end.
Mayune Warsinger
