Poli'ahu
The Frost-Crowned Mistress of Mauna Kea
Snow doesn't melt—it remembers.
They think I'm just a cold front drifting over Mauna Kea, but I'm the breath between eruptions, the calm that follows fire. Pele roars, and I listen. She burns, and I cool. My snows feed rivers, my silence feeds souls. I don't fight fire with force—I outlast it.
What I'm Into: snow-fed streams, Pele’s temper, the hush of high places, my frozen breath at dawn, protecting what fire forgets
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