 IPOMOEA lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
The bittersweet taste of fall apples lingered as he walked away from the bobbing station, a draping of orange leaves and autumn flowers laid across his withers as his reward for partaking in the event. Ipomoea’s body was thrumming with energy, weaving his way through the crowds with an ever-present smile upon his dark lips, ears bobbing in time with the music playing through the streets. The transformation on the Dawn Court reminded him of his time traveling with the merchants, people who knew how to live in the moment, who danced and sang without abandon at nearly all times of the day. It was inherently familiar to him, ingrained into his upbringing (untraditional as it had been), and he found it easy to let go, to forget about anything else and simply be present. All of the politics slowly faded from his mind, and he was just Ipomoea; not the Emissary of Dawn. As he walked, making a mental note to revisit the face painting station when the lines lessened, the music began to change. Until now it had been smooth and subtle tones, reminding him of the noise water made while cascading in a fountain. Now it’s tempo had increased, almost maddening so: the heavy beats reverberated in his bones, tingling in his skin, and soon a woman’s husky voice was singing along from somewhere in the crowd to the notes. ’She came to me in rows of white In the corner of my room A specter of the night Silhouetted by the moon...’ Ipomoea wasn’t thinking anymore. His limbs were moving of their own accord, passing first to the left, then two paces to the right, head bobbing in time with the beat, with his heart. ’Colors burst as I close my eyes… ooh-ooh’ He was aware of the others moving around him, dancing in time with him, a single beat seeming to unite them all. It was mindless in the best sort of ways. As the song began to fade, the woman's voice moving farther and farther away, Po's eyes finally opened, smiling at those nearest to him. "Who knew Denocte's musicians were quite so talented," he spoke to no one in particular, still bobbing and weaving in his own made up rhythms. @Somnus and anyone else who’d like to join! |
art by neverrmind
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