CHAPTER THREE: IDENTITY

--Lark--

Flames.

Everything about him spoke of fire: his toxic orange hair, sulfuric yellow skin that gleamed sickly in the moonlight, the crimson of his clothes. He stepped towards her, and her heart began hammering in her chest.

She lowered the flute, and the music faded. The numbing soporific of the melody still held sway over the animals in pain, giving them relief from the throbbing of their burns.

"Who are you?" He whispered.

"Lark Nightsong."

I am the healer, she thought, the wind-whisperer, the witch of air... a Daughter of Gaia.

But she knew never to tell a stranger that.

--Pollution--

"Lark Nightsong."

What a name. That was an eco-punk name, sure thing. How could someone making such toxic music have a name like that?

"Who are you?" She murmured. He tasted poison gas and death on her voice. It seared him to the bone in just the right way that he almost turned to sludge.

"Well, babe... I was just passin' through, heard your tunes, wondered who was jammin' like that."

She blinked her grey eyes, silver-sweet in the light of the moon, and asked, "Would you like to hear more?"

"Sure."

And he sat down to hear her play.