She shudders again, shaking her head at Katara, an obvious refusal to talk about it. Visions of dead hands breaking through windows fill her mind, tortured faces contorted in grimaces of death, slow, shambling walks, shattering bodies. Blood and screaming and the walking dead, and Luna has had it.

What had seemed to be a firm grasp on her emotions cracks down the middle, loosing an ocean of horror that the blonde has somehow managed to keep at bay since she regained her lucidity. Pulling her knees into her chest, wand knocked from behind her ear, she dissolves into choking, terrified sobs, and honestly, it's the most genuine thing she's done since her podpop.

She's been holding this back for a while, so bare with her, Katara.