-Octavia-

Oh lawd, if I were laughing on the outside right now, it would look like this: I mean, damn...I finally pushed past those poignant thoughts I was having before, and this...this is just what I needed. To be able to apply my flippant attitude in a hilariously constructive manner. Just...thank you, you-know-who-you-are. Now I can continue where I left off without feeling so lost.

But as they were running into the ruins, Aria tripped over a rock and shattered every bone in her body. In her final moments, she looked through the canopy into the sky and with a dying breath said... "Rest in prinse sweet prinse 2015-420, 2spooky4me." And she died.

Taste This Rainbow Dash, or Taste This, Rainbow Dash? I feel like one has considerably more sauce potential than the other. Er...brilliant work, as always.

Result: Poseidon Hmm. I suppose I see some similarities, though several traits are a bit off the mark. Curious, nonetheless. Quite a few Athenas here.

I'm thinking Dionysus, but just to be sure, might as well take the quiz.

A solitary mare stood upon the stage, preparing to play the part of puppeteer tugging at the heartstrings of the audience. She was but a shadow before them, nothing compared to the beguiling beauty of the piece in which they yearned to lose themselves, souls on the precipice of an emotional chasm in which Death resided. Its instrument began her hypnotic melody, an ethereal wanderlust settling upon the debt she was collecting. Such was the price paid for transcendence, for a touching transformation oft cast out the mind from the body and forevermore would they be haunted by the glimpse of that which could never be articulated. The puppeteer, with exquisitely unerring execution, wrapped the audience in a blanket of false comforts in the guise of a refrain, carrying them along in unworried wonder towards the bridge. She began to cross with them in her embrace over the awaiting chasm, the only certainty being that another piece of her would perish here. The wind rose and fell as beckoning notes resounded in their ears, each a jewel strung about an elegant necklace promising to lift them from the troubles of life. Slipping about her neck, ever the perfect fit to her soul, the beautiful noose pulled her over the edge and into the welcoming abyss. Falling... Which is the illusion?

Lost. How can one ever know the right path? Life is naught but assumptions that either prove true or deviate disastrously. Quickly I grew tired of starting anew, although was I starting in the first place? What difference would be wrought? What consequences did I not foresee? Looking around at others who have taken up this mantle I see something akin to success, but for whom? Was this what I was trying to become? What had blinded me such that I had misinterpreted the goal to quite a degree? I suppose I should consider myself lucky I found clarity, but where do I go from here? I want to believe I can change, but not in the way they intended. Why does it feel so late to turn back when I can still see myself standing only a whisper away?

My best constume for Halloween was myself. I daresay I struck fear into many a heart that day, along with every other day of my existence.

Suits, perhaps. Canes and top hats are not quite my style. 'Tis sophistication to excess. Am I the only one altering a state of mind for the sake of improvement?

A pogniant question, given my subject. To embrace the quizzical nature of death is not something to which I am averse, but feelings would be misplaced, and apathy would perhaps steal over me.

Gratified

Alas, if only my words could match the florid prose within, for surely a predilection for eloquence would serve me better than my breviloquence.

If I may be so bold as to pair Stormfury with myself?

Oft are words our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting harm, and mending it. A spell struck by a single chord begins a discordant progression, and the audience loses itself either in fey revelry or a more sinister bout of critical conjecture regarding the piece played. Whole becomes half becomes quarters, so proceeding until reaching the smallest of notes as irrevocable damage is so easily woven by our fingers. Let it not be so, for you are so much more and require no less. Of course, there is perhaps little I could say that would be of comfort, for the source from whence it comes to you has become uncooperative.

Charmed. Short was my slumber, but enlightening nonetheless. I daresay I look forward to more sessions such as these. 'Tis not as daunting as I had anticipated, though I shan't be unwary.

Quite so, I must say. Were I to give a numerical value, it would have to be a 9.5/10.

Pensive. Here I am, about to delve into a realm few should and will ever know, for such matters can bring about a certain delirious destruction. I only hope that in this endeavor my resolve will be unwavering, for hestitancy can lead to worse still. The senses on which I so readily rely can be easily fooled, and from here on out I cannot hope to trust them, lest I lose myself. I will exist, of course, yet I will not, for of two sides there is no telling on which the coin will land. One will be left forgotten in darkness as the other remains on display for all the world to see. I hope I remain on the right side of the coin. If I do not...well, at least I will not be able to see what I have wrought upon...whatever remains. But you will. Do not encourage it.

Kill Xenocelestia and rely on hypnosis instead.