 IPOMOEA lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
The flowers were bright and full—the very best Ipomoea could find. He had searched for them all day, carefully, critically selecting the prettiest and the most perfect, rejecting hundreds in the process. During this search had he also selected five long and sturdy strands of prairie grass, braiding them together into a hardy cord that he tied around his finished bouquet. It was impressive in size and sight, yes, the many blossoms arranged meticulously to best please the eye, but even more so in effort, for Ipomoea had devoted many hours singularly to his flower-picking task. If this was not good enough for a god, he didn’t know what was. He had picked the northwestern portion of the clearing, for if he were to draw a map of Novus onto the ground the northwest would align with Dawn Court, and the Dawn Court aligned with Oriens. Carefully had he laid his bouquet down amongst the grass and moss, its flowers bright against the dark green background. Without a word he bowed, inclining his head low to his ankles and paused for one, two, three long breaths. Still speechless, eyes downcast in reverence, he laid beside his offering and waited. An expectant breeze filled the clearing atop the Veneror Peak, ruffling the petals as his bouquet lay on the ground. Ipomoea’s breath caught in his throat, straining to keep his eyes on the flowers, sure some great, miraculous sign was about to occur. The breeze died, and the flowers became still once more. With a huff, Ipomoea relaxed again, swishing his short tail across the ground. He wasn’t sure why he had spent so much time carefully crafting his offering, hiking the rocky paths to reach such an empty place, save that it was his duty as Emissary to align himself with Oriens. Perhaps he had expected more: his life had been so filled with adventures and with helping hands that it seemed impossible for it to have not been orchestrated by a god. To leave his journey up to pure chance seemed silly—chance would have seen him dead in the Day Court as a struggling weanling, unable to tolerate the heat and the sand and the dry. It would not have seen him, an orphan, traveling the world and ending in the Dawn Court, elected as Emissary. This was why he had taken so much care in creating his offering: he had had little to return to a god who had given him life itself, so he had decided to give him his most favorite of things: flowers. Still, it did not seem as though his actions were pleasing to the god, for here he still lay, alone, without any sign of something greater. It seemed silly now, in retrospect. Why would a god want flowers? Surely, Oriens had his pick of the entire meadow of Delumine! Oriens could make himself the most perfect flower, creating a new species singularly for himself, the brightest and fullest with the most intricately arranged petals—Ipomoea could see the possibilities in his mind, the beauty and detail of a god making something beautiful for himself. It made his own offering seem small, pitiful in comparison. A tear rolled down the Emissary’s speckled cheek. How foolish of him, to devote so much time to an unworthy gift. But what else could he have done? He knew not what would be considered worthy to a god—if only Oriens could have left instructions, a list of the things he liked most, Ipomoea would have fulfilled all of them if it meant gaining his favor. As it was, his flowers were met only with silence, and Ipomoea was left waiting. “Oriens?” he called out, his voice sounding small and shaky. He had no idea if a god would answer a mortal—but it was at least worth a shot? @anyone! ”here am I!” |
art by eldafer
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