the wind illuminating a petal soul
He is lonely.
All the world has shrunk down to this small bundle of flowers. At first he thought them lovely, bright yellow and black. And when everyone came looking for the queen and found only that bundle of bright petals he wondered if they thought more of him. Autumn came and the citizens stopped coming to the crumbled maze looking for hints.
Sometimes he would think that the world has forgotten him. But those petals went to seed and took root. New flowers bloomed in a pattern that looked a little like his body. He thought then, as long as those flowers kept blooming that the world would not completely forget about him. He wonders too, who is left in this world to dream of sunshine and and black flowers.
The days and the nights carry on, and on, and on. His world never got any larger or any smaller that that outcrop of blood and magic made blooms. He is still lonely.
Night by night the winds start feeling colder. If it weren't for the small flakes of snow that sometimes looked like the memory of a firefly, he wouldn't have know that winter was arriving soon. Each morning there is a soft sheen of frost on his world of petals. The shine in the ice and he wonders if anyone could see him, if he would look like frost on flowers.
It's just before the dawn when he hears the soft whisper of steps in the wilting grass (or at least he thinks he hears it, maybe he only feels things now, in the non-core of him). There is something familiar about that form moving in the grass, something that makes his small world ache and shiver. He thinks this is the most alive he's felt in however long his world has been flowers and frost. Each edge of him quivers into an almost form.
He almost feels like a live-wire leaping in a cage when the form turns the corner and it carries with a memory of live and life. He floats away on that memory, like a petal fallen from a stalk blowing away on the breeze.
- - - - - - -
The wind is colder than usual in the moment jut before the sun starts to layer pinks and brightness on the horizon. It feels like winter has come early this year, like a bull running violently towards all the blood staining this world. There are no birds singing this morning, no animals running back home through the tall grasses.
There is nothing but the wind this morning (and that frosted, shining outcrop of flowers).
But this wind is not normal (or as least it won't feel normal to one horse wandering in the dawn). It's a singing wind, a winter wind. It's a magic wind and it moves like a snake through the air. The wind is hunting those footsteps in the wilting grass; it's hunting the thing that made him feel a memory.
Each frosted snowflake on the wind carries with it it a word. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The wind sings. You must hurry. Every touch of it is frantic as it twines around her horns and her legs, feral and needy. The thing in the flowers is still floating away on his memories and the wind is worried that it might be too late.
Sabine might not have come to the flowers soon enough.
But once she's close enough to read the patterns in frost over the yellow and black petals (and maybe think of who those colors make her think of), the wind stops it's singing. Birds finally start to sing as the pink colors are layered like wet paint over the meadow. Maybe it was a dream, that wild, hunting wind? Or maybe it only stopped because she's found that small bundle of flowers in the shape of a body.
And just as the sun starts to peek up over the horizon like a dreaming child, the wind has one more final song to sing. This time the flowers join the melody as they shake off their frost and their loneliness. This song is sweet, like a eulogy rung out in bell-chime and turning vellum pages.
Eat me. The petals and the wind sing. It sounds like a prayer.
He has been waiting.
All the world has shrunk down to this small bundle of flowers. At first he thought them lovely, bright yellow and black. And when everyone came looking for the queen and found only that bundle of bright petals he wondered if they thought more of him. Autumn came and the citizens stopped coming to the crumbled maze looking for hints.
Sometimes he would think that the world has forgotten him. But those petals went to seed and took root. New flowers bloomed in a pattern that looked a little like his body. He thought then, as long as those flowers kept blooming that the world would not completely forget about him. He wonders too, who is left in this world to dream of sunshine and and black flowers.
The days and the nights carry on, and on, and on. His world never got any larger or any smaller that that outcrop of blood and magic made blooms. He is still lonely.
Night by night the winds start feeling colder. If it weren't for the small flakes of snow that sometimes looked like the memory of a firefly, he wouldn't have know that winter was arriving soon. Each morning there is a soft sheen of frost on his world of petals. The shine in the ice and he wonders if anyone could see him, if he would look like frost on flowers.
It's just before the dawn when he hears the soft whisper of steps in the wilting grass (or at least he thinks he hears it, maybe he only feels things now, in the non-core of him). There is something familiar about that form moving in the grass, something that makes his small world ache and shiver. He thinks this is the most alive he's felt in however long his world has been flowers and frost. Each edge of him quivers into an almost form.
He almost feels like a live-wire leaping in a cage when the form turns the corner and it carries with a memory of live and life. He floats away on that memory, like a petal fallen from a stalk blowing away on the breeze.
- - - - - - -
The wind is colder than usual in the moment jut before the sun starts to layer pinks and brightness on the horizon. It feels like winter has come early this year, like a bull running violently towards all the blood staining this world. There are no birds singing this morning, no animals running back home through the tall grasses.
There is nothing but the wind this morning (and that frosted, shining outcrop of flowers).
But this wind is not normal (or as least it won't feel normal to one horse wandering in the dawn). It's a singing wind, a winter wind. It's a magic wind and it moves like a snake through the air. The wind is hunting those footsteps in the wilting grass; it's hunting the thing that made him feel a memory.
Each frosted snowflake on the wind carries with it it a word. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The wind sings. You must hurry. Every touch of it is frantic as it twines around her horns and her legs, feral and needy. The thing in the flowers is still floating away on his memories and the wind is worried that it might be too late.
Sabine might not have come to the flowers soon enough.
But once she's close enough to read the patterns in frost over the yellow and black petals (and maybe think of who those colors make her think of), the wind stops it's singing. Birds finally start to sing as the pink colors are layered like wet paint over the meadow. Maybe it was a dream, that wild, hunting wind? Or maybe it only stopped because she's found that small bundle of flowers in the shape of a body.
And just as the sun starts to peek up over the horizon like a dreaming child, the wind has one more final song to sing. This time the flowers join the melody as they shake off their frost and their loneliness. This song is sweet, like a eulogy rung out in bell-chime and turning vellum pages.
Eat me. The petals and the wind sing. It sounds like a prayer.
He has been waiting.
@Sabine will feel the wind calling to her just as the sun starts to rise. Winter has come early this year and there are small flakes of snow floating around in strange patterns. The wind might seem like it's singing as it lows through the tall grasses like a cow lowing at a calf. Are there words in that wind? She might feel an urgency to follow it and find out.
Once she finds the small outcrop of yellow and black flowers (not flowers of this world surely) the wind suddenly stops. It feels like the whole world has taken one great big inhale, a pause before the storm crashes over the world. And when the wind picks up again it's gentle and a single flower blows in the breeze like it's asking for something.
He needs her figure out what the flower is saying. He's been waiting.
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I'm going to go cry in the corner now. -sob-
I hope you like it!
Enjoy! -nestle
Once she finds the small outcrop of yellow and black flowers (not flowers of this world surely) the wind suddenly stops. It feels like the whole world has taken one great big inhale, a pause before the storm crashes over the world. And when the wind picks up again it's gentle and a single flower blows in the breeze like it's asking for something.
He needs her figure out what the flower is saying. He's been waiting.
How to tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk!
Once you respond, you may post to claim the quest EXP
I hope you like it!
Enjoy! -nestle
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
