pale flowers on his mantle, dark leaves on is hair
A tapestry of dreams and silk is woven upon her skin, but the disaster of color and hodgepodge of imagination upon the paper is nothing compared to the tapestries upon the walls. Still, she hums and smiles and grins, a barbarian, a priestess enjoying all that Vespera has to offer.
Before her is the sea - a bluish green blob that's turned a horrid shade of brown and black at the bottom where the failed artist put eyes and tentacles reaching up. To the right, a great tree stretches roots into the water and branches towards the sky, the sky that is painted in what seems to be an attempt at a sunset on her ocean-front property. Oh, but it is as imperfect as any who is unused to these fine tools in their hands.
There is a man at her shoulder who smells of the salt and the sea and the smoke from the fires, but he smells of the earth and something else that pulls green eyes over to him. They laugh as all Pegasus' eyes should, as all whose tethers are cut from land should, as all who have tasted freedom and know they will never be anchored again should. She grins and leans close, leans near, brushing cheek to cheek to whisper in his ear: “Art," and giggle with such delight that the stars lean in closer to take in just a hint of the ethereal girl.
How she is a goddess on land! Silk strands of hair is woven with and spiraling up over her neck until she is a looping path of hair and mystery. Her amethyst cloak is precariously tipped over to one shoulder, bunched as a scarf about the base of her neck so that it will not be lost. She seems a scattered mess that only the swamps can breed, she seems untethered that only the skies see.
“Call me Jun," she chirps, pulling back after a brief peck on his cheek. Without seeming to mind herself or anything of personal space, the unearthly girl splatters paint on the page once more before nodding, completely unaware of the splatters of red and blue and seafoam green that speckle her breast and shoulders and cheeks as freckles and trophies of her conquest. “It's almost perfect, wouldn't you say?" There's no pleading in her eyes, nothing to say she has any doubt that what she's created is anything but a masterpiece. Juniper was not raised on the art of painting unless it is to paint another's skin with kisses and gentle touches. She'd do that now, but she is still learning how town-folk behave.
Ah, and there in those green, green, laughing green eyes she seems to say you will soon, in answer to the questions his ask. Barely a breath passes between them that she oes not catch, and at last that leonine, barbaric, wild grin back in place now that her tongue no longer sticks out in concentration.
She vibrates with the music, with the laughing fires, with the crackling steps on the ground and sloshing drinks to accompany the cicadas and crickets chirping just outside their merry rings. This is her element, this revelry and love and gaiety that is in the bones of her people, these people, as it is in her very soul. For a moment in time, Juniper has found where she belongs again.
Before her is the sea - a bluish green blob that's turned a horrid shade of brown and black at the bottom where the failed artist put eyes and tentacles reaching up. To the right, a great tree stretches roots into the water and branches towards the sky, the sky that is painted in what seems to be an attempt at a sunset on her ocean-front property. Oh, but it is as imperfect as any who is unused to these fine tools in their hands.
There is a man at her shoulder who smells of the salt and the sea and the smoke from the fires, but he smells of the earth and something else that pulls green eyes over to him. They laugh as all Pegasus' eyes should, as all whose tethers are cut from land should, as all who have tasted freedom and know they will never be anchored again should. She grins and leans close, leans near, brushing cheek to cheek to whisper in his ear: “Art," and giggle with such delight that the stars lean in closer to take in just a hint of the ethereal girl.
How she is a goddess on land! Silk strands of hair is woven with and spiraling up over her neck until she is a looping path of hair and mystery. Her amethyst cloak is precariously tipped over to one shoulder, bunched as a scarf about the base of her neck so that it will not be lost. She seems a scattered mess that only the swamps can breed, she seems untethered that only the skies see.
“Call me Jun," she chirps, pulling back after a brief peck on his cheek. Without seeming to mind herself or anything of personal space, the unearthly girl splatters paint on the page once more before nodding, completely unaware of the splatters of red and blue and seafoam green that speckle her breast and shoulders and cheeks as freckles and trophies of her conquest. “It's almost perfect, wouldn't you say?" There's no pleading in her eyes, nothing to say she has any doubt that what she's created is anything but a masterpiece. Juniper was not raised on the art of painting unless it is to paint another's skin with kisses and gentle touches. She'd do that now, but she is still learning how town-folk behave.
Ah, and there in those green, green, laughing green eyes she seems to say you will soon, in answer to the questions his ask. Barely a breath passes between them that she oes not catch, and at last that leonine, barbaric, wild grin back in place now that her tongue no longer sticks out in concentration.
She vibrates with the music, with the laughing fires, with the crackling steps on the ground and sloshing drinks to accompany the cicadas and crickets chirping just outside their merry rings. This is her element, this revelry and love and gaiety that is in the bones of her people, these people, as it is in her very soul. For a moment in time, Juniper has found where she belongs again.
@Asterion | "speaks" | notes: coming in hot with little miss not even drunk but high on life
rallidae | art
