Crackles and pops are heard as the nearby fire sings its melody, sending trails of smoke and flames into the chimney above. The room is dim and grimy, while the light from the fireplace casts sharp shadows onto the worn elf, who mutely sits before it in isolated thought.
She stares at it with a glare she wished she could give to those she cursed, imagining it to be those she wants dead. She imagines the fire to be them. Her desire to express her hatred was greater than that of any other wish she had left, yet this wish would remain unsated. It always has been for her, which is what lead her to her current state of mind— brought to nothing. Broken. Hated. Outcasted.
Brushing unkempt hair from her eyes, she doesn't move her gaze from the fire but instead watches it in mute as she lets her mind wander.
As she moves her calloused hands up to clutch her head as she brings her knees to her chest, she stares at the fire with a firmer gaze. Her fingernails dig into her scalp where she scratches down as hard as she can, hardly able to perceive her own actions before she stops after a moment, breathing in quick but quiet gasps as she struggles to finds her mind— or rather lack of it. She unwillingly recalls memories which plagued her person, memories that sapped every bit of her rationality and thinking.
Moving her hands down, she looks to her fingertips. A thin amount of blood coats them with some underneath her fingernails. A distasteful sight, one would say, yet she looks back to the fire as she rests her hands on her knees. Blood was not foreign to her, whether it be her own blood, the blood of her enemies or even her friends.
How much suffering, strain, and damage can one endure until their reason and civility are destroyed? How can some remain so held together with such mental fortitude and strength, while others are barely able to tell truth from untruth?
Then again, life itself is... full of many lies.