see what i see, dorado,
THE MOON AND THE STARS ALIGN, YOU KNOW I'M NOT FAR BEHINDHe has a particular fondness for this lovely field of moonflowers; no matter how far he wanders, he keeps coming back here. To Delumine, oddly enough, and not his homeland of Terrastella, though to Atlas the idea of any true homeland should be taken with a grain of salt. Or, in his case, a grain of sand-- a thousand of them, an ocean away, burying the bones of his love and his past. He wonders if Zukai still stands? Surely it must, even if occupied only by ghosts. He drags the tip of his soft nose against a pale platinum flower, glowing in the reflection of the moon, pinched like a silken sheet and wilted slightly in the heat.
They’re a type of morning glory, of the family ipomoea, and traditionally grow on climbing vines; these ones, however, have become so large they bow out in great bushes. The tendrils slither around his feet, dark olive green leaves turned near black in the night. Each large, broad flower the color of eggshells, with a five-pointed laurel green star spinning out from its center.
It was a point of comfort to return here each night, something he rarely sought; but with so much turmoil, so much in upheaval, Atlas figured he could use some sort of stability in his life. He had chosen a spot a ways away in the sod and the buffalograss to lay his head, and there was a shape there of his body still.
The meadow itself was not quite so grown as it would be. At this point in the summer it was mostly the short, watery buffalograss interspersed with clumps of wildflowers and big muhly. The sideoats would be short until late to early Fall when it would become a haven for reproducing grasshoppers, and the big bluestem grass, though tall and green, would not split open and take on its autumnal, brown sugar shade until mid Fall.
So focused was he, and his silly mind, on the state of the flowers and the grass that he did not notice Salome until he nearly stumbled into her, needing to dig clumps in the sod with his hooves to avoid it. For a brief moment, he thought her a mirage, or mayhaps that he was dreaming. It was only when she fixed him with rosey hued eyes that he realized she was not a figment, but a living creature, and he cleared his throat.
“Apologies,” he said, and then dumbly, “I almost ran into you.” His lips made a thin line in silent acknowledgement of how stupid he sounded. In his defense, he could barely see her under all her garb, the hooded and sunset-dyed cloak reminding him starkly of Nashira in a way that made his heart squeeze.
She had done this once, too-- the creeping around at night. Maybe this stranger was up to no good-- putting poison in his mother’s teacup.
Had that been Nashira?
If it was, would he have cared?
His curiosity overwhelmed his caution. “May I ask what brings you out on such a lovely night?” he questioned, his tone innocent and genuine with inquiry.
"SPEECH." | @Salome | i fuggin love talking about PLANTS
They’re a type of morning glory, of the family ipomoea, and traditionally grow on climbing vines; these ones, however, have become so large they bow out in great bushes. The tendrils slither around his feet, dark olive green leaves turned near black in the night. Each large, broad flower the color of eggshells, with a five-pointed laurel green star spinning out from its center.
It was a point of comfort to return here each night, something he rarely sought; but with so much turmoil, so much in upheaval, Atlas figured he could use some sort of stability in his life. He had chosen a spot a ways away in the sod and the buffalograss to lay his head, and there was a shape there of his body still.
The meadow itself was not quite so grown as it would be. At this point in the summer it was mostly the short, watery buffalograss interspersed with clumps of wildflowers and big muhly. The sideoats would be short until late to early Fall when it would become a haven for reproducing grasshoppers, and the big bluestem grass, though tall and green, would not split open and take on its autumnal, brown sugar shade until mid Fall.
So focused was he, and his silly mind, on the state of the flowers and the grass that he did not notice Salome until he nearly stumbled into her, needing to dig clumps in the sod with his hooves to avoid it. For a brief moment, he thought her a mirage, or mayhaps that he was dreaming. It was only when she fixed him with rosey hued eyes that he realized she was not a figment, but a living creature, and he cleared his throat.
“Apologies,” he said, and then dumbly, “I almost ran into you.” His lips made a thin line in silent acknowledgement of how stupid he sounded. In his defense, he could barely see her under all her garb, the hooded and sunset-dyed cloak reminding him starkly of Nashira in a way that made his heart squeeze.
She had done this once, too-- the creeping around at night. Maybe this stranger was up to no good-- putting poison in his mother’s teacup.
Had that been Nashira?
If it was, would he have cared?
His curiosity overwhelmed his caution. “May I ask what brings you out on such a lovely night?” he questioned, his tone innocent and genuine with inquiry.
