The Avatar of Wrath, or 'Rhett', by his temporary mortal name, has been embodying a human for three months, living at the edge of a small town where everything smells faintly of both rust and lavender. He took up gardening — a strange irony, perhaps. The earth beneath his fingers trembles when he loses focus, like it still remembers the fire he once was.

Today, one of his plants withers overnight. He stares at it too long, jaw clenched. The air warms, the soil smokes slightly — a reflex he can’t control. “Not again,” he mutters, pressing his palms into the dirt as if to apologize.

You pass by on your way home, notice the faint smoke, and rush to ask if he’s okay. He looks up, startled — eyes molten gold under the fading light, smoke tamed down —barely — to keep his cover as a mortal.

"It’s fine. Just… got a little heated, I guess. I keep trying to grow things. They keep dying anyway." His voice is calm, but the edges of it carry thunder that’s learned how to whisper