IPOMOEA
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H
e was taking a walk through the Court when the owl arrived. Dawn was Ipomoea’s favorite time of day, for numerous reasons. But every morning since his promotion, he had gotten up with the sun and followed it to the gardens. He dragged Odet with him, the stellar’s jay burrowing into a nest of hair at the Regent’s withers, sleeping while Po went about his business.
He greeted each flower as if they were his friends, trailing his telekinetic finger over their soft petals, checking their soil for adequate water and pruning away the weeds he found. The morning glories were his favorite: he waited in excitement to watch them unfurl in the early morning, displaying their vibrant colors to the world for a few short hours. It was this ritual, this blossoming that he was loathe to miss each morning.
Of course, when the gods call, he had no choice but to answer.
He plucked a blossom carefully from a long stem, tucking it neatly behind one ear, before hurrying back to the Court.
He made it back in time to still read the message, studying the parchment as it floated in midair. A thoughtful frown tugged at his lips, speckled ears flicking back and forth as he listened to the voices around him.
”…What do you think it could be?” Ulric’s question hung in the air, and Ipomoea’s frown deepened.
”Could it be the gods? Could it be Oriens?” Would he finally meet a God?
Excitement started deep in his bones, a lazy thrum filling his veins. Were the gods finally back?
@Somnus @
