what she's good at. [morgan mood post]
She's good at killing.

It's a weird thing to be good at, when it comes right down to it. Morgan Roche, pretty little barely legal thing, all height and curves and awkward graces but heck of a fighter when you put her in a corner against some ungodly wyrm of a thing.

Sometimes she wonders what they'll say over her grave. Late at night, early before sunrise, roaming the borders of Forgotten Questions. What will the life of Firebrand trickle down to, like sand pouring out between someone's fingers. Tiny micro moments where she shone or fucked up or figured out what came next.

She's young in the eyes of the Nation, held accountable now in the eyes of mortal man but just barely. Not old enough for everything but she's old enough to remember what it felt like to kill a man. To wake up, shaking and blood stained and terrified of your own body. It's an impossible thing to chronicle, that kind of fear. Intangible but there, she'd tried to articulate it once, to her grandfather. Sitting on the steps of the family house with insects buzzing in the air around a light. Drawn to it over and over until they forgot what it was to want anything but that damn light.

And then, at some point, they died. You found them, on the ground. Curled up and dried out as if that desire, that infernal longing for the light sucked every last drop of life out of them. She thinks she's a moth now and that Rage she feels coursing through her veins, pounding like a drum in her ears is the light. I don't wanna be a killer, she'd said, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and sniffing because crying felt like the thing to do, all things considered.

The family celebrated another true born in the line and she felt like she'd been sentenced to death.

Gaia's blessed ye, he'd told her. Yer special now, Morgan Roche.

She didn't think Gaia's blessings were much to be grateful for then and she's in a mixed mind about them now. Though there are bright spots, little moments where it's not so bad. Where she does something and someone tells her she did well, did right. Nights when the sky clears up and she can sit out under the stars and count them in her head. Sometimes she stops by Matthew Murphy's bar and sits in the corner, even when he's not behind it just for the sake of being there. She doesn't think she has a lot to offer a Kinfolk, but she has her Rage, tickling away under her skin.

She's good at killing and maybe, she's okay at protecting, too, when it comes right down to it.

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