they say you are a virtue
are you mostly wasted or more precious?
are you mostly wasted or more precious?
L
eaf-shadows dapple her sides, paint illusions upon her wings, make her into something darker and more sinister than she is. Were it not for the laughter that shines like candlelight and the golden curve of horns so small, so sweet, tucked gently behind pale ears, Juniper might appear as something sinister lurking in the swamps. Like her skin, like her smile, like the silken strands that drip like water behind her, she darkens with the darkening of the sky. The sounds of slowly moving water hits her first, footsteps moving in with the tell-tale sloshing to follow. Something is about, something that could eat her or simply pass her by. There is a thrill in her blood, she feels it in the way that her heart quickens in anticipation, how her muscles tighten. Juniper is ready to fly or ready to dance, whichever comes first she is unsure of.
When the morning before last had dawned, bright and beautiful, full of autumnal colors that lit the sky, she was in the court. Walls caged her, people surrounded her, bodies hummed with restless anticipation for their new Queen. Asterion - that star-struck souls he'd met while painting - was gone and left another in his place. Queen, Empress, Overlord. The title matters little to the goddess-girl. Only the wind holds sway over her, only her teachers and sisters and lovers even have a taste of where she might go or how she would get there.
Boldly, fearlessly, the woman in white moves forward. These wet grounds are her home, the every changing trees held her long before Death ever thought to try and conquer a woman meant for both land and sky, made of more than air and stardust, made of courage and heart beyond measure. "Shadows cannot hold you forever," she calls lyrically, pale crown reaching forward to peer around the next tree, to look where the footsteps fall. "And I will find all in time, come out, come play, come talk and dance. Can't you hear the wind calling you to me?" She hums it, she is a siren of the sky, her voice full of prayers and litanies, a psalm upon her lips and beads upon her brow. Storm cloak shifts about her skin, swishes with the ghost of a breeze that moves through the swamps.
Who is it, she wonders. Will they come play?
@Leto | "speaks" | notes: I hope this is okay ! Don't mind me hogging three of your threads
