Kismet

where e'er she walks the flowers wilt; the ground is barren; the animals wither

dust to dust, ashes to ashes

she was never a part of this world. there is no secret. the proof is in the cracking soil and the shriveled skin, the burst feathers of birds who flew too close. she is a shell of metal carved with lines and within her a furnace burns to power this machine

she searches ever for a cure; that time may be close at hand. within her may lie the tools for
resurrection
this part written by rukafais
---
or at least that was the story of kismet, the old kismet

this one was born more like a reactor than a furnace, no more a part of this world than the old, burning even-hotter as she walks

perhaps within this one, as well, lie the tools for resurrection

but she does not seek a cure. she seeks to burn brighter and hotter and larger

maybe, eventually, she will become a sun in her own right.

maybe nothing else will be drained and burned and turned to ash in the process

but it is unlikely.