[color=bc8dbf][b]Stormy[/b][/color]

The ghost girl’s voice was frosty iron and she became a sheer cliff-face. Stormy seemed to flinch at her own name. Shrivelled breaths filled her lungs, frail, withered things. Her chest rose and fell faster, almost imperceptibly, but not quite. 

Stormy looked down at her blue boon. Her face became a canvas for her emotions to paint across; thick oils sculpting her brow, tremulous water colours detailing her quivering lips, everything running across in a fluid, technicolour medley that reflected her tumultuous heart. 

When the Rebel spoke, a smile toyed at the corners of Stormy’s lips, and she watched her, with head titled to one side. Stormy remained silent, during the back and forth, following the dirt road with her eyes until it vanished.  

Then the changes came. She watched as the tearful Rebel put on the mask, and then… then Stormy was not sure what happened, but she watched aghast all the same, fingers hovering over her slack mouth. The crying was replaced by laughter, but it didn’t seem any less sorrowful, and Stormy could feel a dampness of her own face now. She wiped the tears away without looking away; the neon green hair and ridiculous garments brought a concerned frown. 

Almost immediately, another transformation. This time in a blinding light. The previous tension apparently dissolving as people decided to put on their masks for a paltry promise. 

The Brazen Boy, or perhaps he was a Zealot, since his attention was a skittish and ephemeral thing, scarpering off at the merest hint of his enthusiasm. Stormy watched as he was born anew, bathed in the light that had drawn her attention, her eyebrows arching impossibly high as her eyes drank in the feathered wings. 

Stormy’s body visually relaxed, her shoulders slumping and hand dropping, when the boy proved to still be himself, still the Brazen Boy, cementing his given name in her mind. 

The bloodied man scrubbed his face, and reached out for Stormy. Together they rose to their feet, as she cooed gently.

Any words that she might have spoken were torn away as perhaps the most horrifying sight unfurled its charnel circus before her. Tristan’s transformation scorched Stormy’s mind. She was struck into a horrified paralysis, unable to wrench her gaze from the viciously churning mess that he was becoming, from the rending metal and machines-out-of-time that replaced what had once been a living boy. With peaceful meadow as a backdrop, the horrid juxtaposition made such a macabre event that much worse, as it was tarnished further with blood and black. Her mouth worked as she looked upon the aberration, but no words came out. Once the twisted birth was over, and Tristan spoke, Stormy turned away quickly. Her face was pale, a thousand-yard stare fixed in place. 

She patted Koda’s shoulder. Her thumb rubbed gentle circles in the fleshy nook just underneath his bone. 

[color=bc8dbf]“It’s alright,”[/color] she intoned, her voice hollow. After a moment, she shook herself, and looked up at the bloodied mess of a face, trying to meet his gaze with her own. Tears brimmed in red-rimmed eyes, but did not yet fall, and a brave smiled found its way onto her face. Koda would feel her hand on his shoulder shaking, too. 

[color=bc8dbf]“How are feeling sugar plum?”[/color] Then, after a pause, she shook her head and gave a curt laugh, [color=bc8dbf]“How can I help?”[/color] 

The hand that held her mask shook most of all.