DISCONTINUED | ❝ We protect those who cannot protect themselves. ❞
━ the fae are undoubtedly a bizarre kind of folk. a little something that ilyarra knows truly well as supposed to having parents labeled as the town's famous nutcases.
it...
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RUMORS WERE PLENTY when it came to just about anything in a world full of thrill deprived individuals whose job was to see a single wrong to a single action.
It was a simple concept.
With every person comes a unique story, with every story comes another unique person, and that unique person has the capability of twisting that same story into something far more unique. And right after that comes everyones favorite thing.
Gossip.
I mean, what other thing could possibly bring angsty teenagers together other than have something intriguing to talk about? It was a main source of releasing pent up creativity and showcasing just how much power words can have when given the ability to conjure a mock story for everyone else to believe in.
"Get out of my field!" A booming voice whistled.
Ilyarra's head perked as she heard the familiar tone of rasp that came from none other than Bobby Finstock, the infamous coach of Beacon Hills most precious sport. Lacrosse.
"You hit like shit!" He was currently screaming an earful to another terrified soul, the girl's face grimacing in pity as she gazed at the scene. "Are you shit? Are you shit, Jared?"
Poor Jared gulped and shook his head. "No, coach."
"Well you sure do act and smell like one. Get outta hear!"
The rest of the boys snickered at their teammate, quickly snapping their attention away once their coach spun to yell at them to continue.
Ducking her head down, Ilyarra returned to what she was initially doing. Which was wiring up whatever project she had working on that day. It was a questionable thing to do while sitting out on the bleachers meant to watch the recurring lacrosse practice. But the students finally overlooked this one after her eight years of showing them scenes odder than the other.
Whether it was screwing up metal objects or even getting her hands on something that awfully looked like a gun, this was probably one of the most ordinary piece of electronic they had seen on her person.
She blew away a stray strand of hair bothering her face, the brown curl finding its position back with the other wave of threads that vaguely represented a lion's mane. The two clips she used to push the elven locks didn't seem to hold the wild strength of her crowning beauty and effortlessly pestered her nose to crinkle.
Already on her fifteenth year of life, Ilyarra's features had developed out of its baby fats and morphed into clear signs of maturity, though not as prominent yet due to still being young. Her skin glowing in ethereal summers and breathed a breeze of fresh wind smelling like wood on a warm weather.
Still, it wasn't enough to silence the pesky mouths of the people around her.
Because no matter how she'd aged out of her braided pigtails and filthy overalls, she knew she was still forever going to be known as the girl who ate butterflies for breakfast. It was a crazy and accidental moment that was still vivid in her memories.
