Private winter solstice - Printable Version

These swamps are her home, things she knows beter than she knows her name some days. The wind guides her further and further from the den of priestesses that were curled about her just hours earlier. Their body heat has barely left her lilac scented skin, but the breeze and the trees purify all that dare travel through them faster than a speeding bullet, reaching speeds that could (would) kill her if she were ever hit anything.

The Pegasus girl swoops down like a hawk, like an eagle, like a falcon. A gleeful cry ripped from her lips as tears are pulled from green, green, endless green eyes that glimmer and shine and laugh and dance. There is a freedom in her flight, something to be longed for as all her earthly attachments are severed. Only the trees and the breeze lord over the pale girl, the goddess girl, as she dances high in the sky with only her purple shimmering robes to whip about her. They look more a scarf now, strewn over her neck and throat and dancing behind and between every beat of her wings.

She is a goddess girl, a free girl, and perhaps Hāsta would have seen her land had she stayed out a moment longer. Alas, the bird did not, and so there are no witnesses save for the snow studded sky high above the boughs to watch as those curious eyes alight on the cabin in the woods.

Juniper knows she's scoured so much of this swamp and yet there is still more to discover. Today, it is a new quadrant, a new adventure that sings in her blood. And it brought her to the door, past the chimes, through the woods into the cottage of the witchy woman, the silver woman, the smoke woman.

There is a wicked delight still warm in those green, green, emerald green eyes. She can still feel her sister's skins flush against her own, their hearts an echoing of her wings in the skies moments before. Adrenaline pulses like a living thing, a breathing thing, as the almost-goddess, the unearthly ephemeral and eternal girl takes in the woman of smoke and her companion eating merrily to the side. Crystals glitter and wink at her, she's almost tempted to wink back. Herbs and grasses and so many sights assault her senses and how Juniper loves being overwhelmed.

She sighs, she smiles, and she slinks across the floor into Corrdelia's orbit until she can almost reach out to touch her wings and feathers. They are black like sin, black like the tear-trains running down her own face, black like the crevices where secret rendezvous are set up through whispers in the dark. Juniper grins like a thief ready to steal the stars from the sky and plant them in the other's skin one by one. "Do you have any tea to start off with?" she asks instead of the million questions burning her tongue. For there is a curiosity thrumming through her skin, its nearly electric the way it hums and seeks to devour her.

Instead, she raises a brow and turns to the shelves, to the crystals, to the crow. "It smells like magic here, are you a magic woman." And she circles back like a girl with a door opening before her, a door she knew was always there and always wished to enter through. She does not hesitate, she wears no shame when that soft, silky voice made of prayers and sins and sermons slips past teeth so pearly white you'd question what (or who) she eats when no one is watching.

"Speaking."