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Felo… "Flame," in the Thalassian tongue.
Fire, raw and alive. Power and passion manifest, in purest symbolic form.
Earth often went dormant or barren when it would not blossom. Water changed through three states of being - ice, rain, vaporous steam. Air either breathed as softly as a goodnight kiss on your skin, or bit through your clothes and into your flesh with the gusty winds.
Fire was the constant.
Fire was always awake. Even when it smoldered it did not sleep, it merely lay patiently in wait to ignite something, to catch it and set it ablaze. Light and heat that could sustain or destroy. Always volatile, dangerous, and beautiful, and nothing was truly its master. No one fears anything like fire.
Flickering and capricious as flames could be, one could still count on all of that. Nothing changed about any of that.
And "playing with fire" - in absolutely every sense of the phrase - was everything that Aranya ever lived for.
Not many regarded fire as something serene, but for the sorceress, it had always had an oddly calming effect. It gave her focus, to gaze upon flame.
Felo'alah…
When she was little, Aranya's parents had described her as something akin to a moth, drawn to the warmth and light of the bedazzling phenomenon. But as she grew, everyone could see that, truly, she was not some fragile, fluttering thing that would go up in smoke.
Like attracts like, and a phoenix knows what it's made of. Her inextinguishable spirit had always seen its own reflection in the flames.
The summer festival was alive with light and music. Jugglers threw flaming torches, fire-eaters blew incendiary billows of fire into the sky. Games were afoot and dancers reveled. Food and drink was everywhere to be had, from sticky toasted smorcs to savory midsummer sausages.
The smell of incense and smoke wove languidly through the air. The bonfires themselves were kept high and roaring, spitting sparks and embers that could have rivaled how the stars filled the sky as they snapped and crackled.
Aranya danced and enjoyed herself as any of the other revelers did, laughing and smiling, twirling on her toes. But then an impulse sparked in her, and a single blink transported her yards away from the main bonfire to where the musicians were gathered. She made a request for a particular song that she knew, hoping that at least a few of them had heard of it as well. To her luck, they had.
The music started and she sang out the words, strong and clear across the whole festivities. She didn't care who stopped and stared as she sang, she didn't care who joined in with her if they knew the song, either. She never did.
When Aranya chose to follow an impulse, all that mattered was how that spark lit the moment and consumed her. How it felt in the light and life of whatever proverbial fire it started.
The blood elf's arms spread out like wings about her as she twirled around and around. A single word beckoned fire into life in the palms of her hands, and it streamed around her with her motions. Each step of her toes, swing of her arms, and sway of her hips sent the flames whirling in mesmerizing shapes - some abstract, some deliberate in their design, like blooming flowers, writhing wyrms, and soaring birds.
Aranya felt the touch of others' sight on her. With eyes, with scrying spells, watching her.
Fine.
Onlookers could carry on. Allies and enemies could fuck off for tonight. She wasn't leaving until she'd had her fill of merriment and could barely keep her mind from falling out of her skull, then she would teleport straight into bed. Battles, prophecies, blood debts, impending doom - it could all wait.
The festival would run for several nights, and Aranya wasn't going to let anyone or anything stop her from enjoying every last one to the fullest.