Wind, there is a shift in the cool, Winter air that traces rivers against the meadows. The brisk gales that send the grasses bending and shifting as it blows, each yellowing stalk bending to its will. So much strength in a thing that could not be caught, touched, held. Though some might try, it would slip through their grasp- even the mighty could not cage it, no mere mortal strength could bend the wind to its command. That was something Reckitt so loved about the wind, how it was no victim, as wily as a fox as it tugged at them, and at times sent them seeking cover. Easily. This invisible creature was so much stronger than all of them, a living thing, she could not deny that; so she looks in the direction it rolls- curious.
Wasn’t she ever? Each gust knew her weakness, possibly better than she herself did.
Something is different about the breeze today, it whispers, or she thinks it does; though the words are faint, foreign things she can not discern. A tingle traces itself against her alabaster spine, against the fine hair that grows increasingly longer as the months pass, as it grows cold and bitter. It reminds her of a feeling she has had before, in another place, where colored orbs roll and bounce, take you over and make you whole. It’s like her leg falling asleep, when she rests too long on a single appendage and the blood flow is ceased, it is uncomfortable, but not wholly painful; she could manage. Something sweet perfumes it as well, though the wildflowers do not grow as they once had, do they even grow anymore this late in the year?
Another curiosity she questions, though her legs continue to propel her, she moves on without knowing her destination, why or where she goes.
It’s a strange beetle that finds the glint of her amber stare now, that holds her soft gaze and she watches it scuttle along. The reflective shell is unusual, a color she can not place, one she has no name or word for, so she tilts her pale head as it scurries. Then she speaks, “Wait, please stop,” she asks it, a tinge of alarm in her tone, the request seems like one that can not be held, she couldn’t keep herself from saying it. Something was making moves with her words, her body, was it the air itself?
Reckitt limps as she walks, her bad right leg plain as day, easily noticed though it does not keep her from pursuing life, from working hard to compensate for her frailty. The pale horse limps, but she keeps going, chasing the reflective creature as it waddles through the brittle Winter grasses, grasses that becoming increasingly brown; decayed. “What strange Magic,” she whispers, the coo of a dove her vocals, the hushed tones that all too often leaked from her pristine lips. The sweet smell carried by the wind begins to make sense, the abundance of vibrant flowers do not go unnoticed as she progresses further into Bellum Steppe.
Flowers that whisper, make song as she stands in the clearing, listening to the orchestra of symphony as it rises and falls with each note.
It reminds her of a siren, the fable of women who lead sailors to their deaths, though even she, the pale Druid, can not resist their call. If there is danger here, she is not safe from it, not spared from whatever downfall it might hold. Proverbial arms spread wide as the music and the whispers coax her in, tug her with the strength of the wind. The wind could not be caught, but a small horse was easily reigned and harnessed, she did not even balk from the tether, perhaps she should have. “Must I stay?” she asked them, each twinkling bloom, ones that spun and folded and opened again.
***STAFF EDIT
@reckitt has rolled a 4! She has been awarded +100 signos for interacting with the flowers.
