Self-prompts. Elements. AU. Yuri. Yaoi. Het. Not in that order. Liberties. Firestarter influences. No offence to anybody. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED KNOW NOW THAT I HAVE WARNED YOU IN BOLD AND CAPITALIZED LETTERS AND THAT IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO BE POSSIBLY INSULTED SKIP FIGMENT "TEMPEST" AND BE ON YOUR WAY. THANK YOU. OOCness.

Part VIII: Lupelim

Fire:

Sometimes, when he isn't paying attention and lets his emotions slide (pain, anger, hatred, passion), a little spark starts in the farthest corner of his house, where the "incident" occurred, and he has to rush to save it. It's always the same corner, and, after a few months, he learned to move all furniture of value away.

Wave:

She moves the water with her fingers, shaping, forming, rolling it with feather light touches. In the distance the ocean rumbled, responding absently to the tendrils of power she had shot about the city.

Breeze:

Only the wind shapes them, changes them. But it is never a power wind, never manipulated by a similar user of age, or rank, or looks. It's the wind of time, pulling them forward, in all directions and none.

Soil:

They dig their fingers into the ground, pushing their elements into the earth and forcing upward. Earth had always been hardest to mold, especially as a secondary element. But the tiny pebbles of metal shook themselves from the dirt nonetheless, the fire bringing them together, the water keeping them consistent and solid.

Ash:

The city is in terrible ruin. The buildings are gone. The river through its center dry, the crow-picked carcasses of dead fish and other aquatic life rotting in the sun. And still, they reminisce, the place bears them a home.

Puddle:

She found him, initially, in a vary large, obviously manipulated, puddle. He had been soaked, wounded and bloody, and above all, unable to use his powers. She had, out of the graciousness of her totally iron heart, lifted the puddle, and him, and toted him back the way she had come, right to her house, where she dumped him ungraciously on the porch and wrung the water from him with viscous determination.

Tempest:

He has never cared for wind users. They were often soft, green-peace humanitarians that smoked hookah and had backwards ways for fighting, when they decided to get off their lazy asses at all. But this one, this one annoyed him beyond compare. So he slaughtered him, and trekked back to the house smattered with blood and whistling merrily.

Mud:

When their enemies fall into the mud and gurgled through sediment and rain and their own blood, Yin deigns to think that maybe she might be bored with this entire affair. Being Quickeners (god, goddess, roll of thunder) is boring, tiresome work, keeping a planet full of loony power-frackers in check. All fall before them, all will fall after. It is an endless cycle. It is the mud.