It had seemed to have taken forever to get the festival organized properly—Ipomoea had never realized how many small, seemingly insignificant details really could make or break a party
This was his first real act as a newly-named Regent. The title still sent a shiver coursing down his spine, a mixture of excitement and apprehension that he had yet to understand. It had all happened so quickly—not that he minded a fast-paced lifestyle, but this time he was left feeling a touch out of breath, a little out of step with the rest of the world, as if two beats behind while everybody else danced on around him. This game he played was so unfamiliar to him: he found himself constantly looking to Somnus while trying to model himself after the dunalino, to mimic his moves even as they were being made.
But try as he might, he could never anticipate the next play; he was out of sync, thrown off kilter by the sudden change of course. ’Who knew politics could turn into such a balancing act…’
But here he was back in his element. The flowers spun like quicksilver in his grasp, twirling themselves together at the barest of thoughts, interlocking their stems and petals into circlets of beauty and color.
“There you go!” With a flourish, he drops the finished flower crowns onto the young filly’s head, the dandelions and chamomile flowers bright against her iron-colored skin. “Enjoy the festival!”
She rushes off with bright eyes, her laughter blending into the noise of the crowds. A wistful smile crosses Ipomoea’s lips, if only briefly—she reminded Po of himself as a boy, carefree and reckless, always rushing off to the next best thing.
So naive and self-assured. In love with the world and everything it had to offer, flowers strewn in his hair without caring how it might look to anyone else, oblivious to the things people might say behind his back.
He shook off the thoughts with a flick of his tail, focusing his attention on the next person to step up to his little booth. “Good morning! Care for a crown of your own?” He gestured happily at the impressive display of flowers assorted on the table, a multitude of colors and species just waiting to be braided together into something magnificent.
“Go on—pick any you’d like!”
Want Po to braid you a flower crown?! Stop right here, tell him which flowers you'd like, and he'll get it done in a jiffy!! No posting order here either, just know if you post he'll get back to you!
(Also feel free to write as if Po made you a flower crown without actually posting here, I'm sure he'll have made tons!)
(If you'd like a more private interaction between Po and your character, just hit me up by pm or on discord and we'll work something out!)
He lingered in the background and on his own with only Alba in his company, settled behind the tapestries and crowds, enjoying the sweet, aromatic scents of the flowers on the breeze. The sounds of children laughing and the peppy, upbeat echoes of songs reached his ears, and the Dawn King found his shoulders relaxing. The weather was compliant and optimal, the sun warm upon his wings and his back, and he watched with keen emerald eyes as the festival goers got in line for Ipomoea’s stand. Somnus smiled.
His Regent was quite at home here, among the beautiful flowers and the jovial, innocent laughter. That was why he had allowed the golden-hearted appaloosa the opportunity to plan the event. It was right up his alley, after all, and none could do it better. Judging by the atmosphere around them now, it was the right choice to make. Delumine was naturally beautiful, but Ipomoea had the skills necessary to cultivate that beauty, those blessings, and turn them into something more.
For a while longer Somnus remained standing vigilant, one leg hiked, ears turning and eyes roaming as he listened and watched, respectively. Upon his shoulders, Alba fluttered her wings, feeling lazy in the afternoon light. What a fine beginning to what he hoped would be a week of fun and merriment. Already a few familiar faces had greeted their Sovereign, and Somnus had responded in warm kind, careful not to take up too much of their time. After all, this was a celebration of fun, beauty, and artistry. They did not need to dampen the affair by spending it all on him.
A break in the line was the signal for him to move, and Somnus did so, his golden coat glinting in the sunlight as he tore himself away from the backdrops to approach his dappled Regent. The dunalino’s dark lips twisted upwards into a fond, affectionate smile, his steps graceful and elegant as ever as he approached. Verdant eyes, dancing with merriment and joy, regarded the young fellow that he had begun to consider a younger brother with both adoration and fondness. His gaze wandered, drifting over the tabletop and taking in the sight of the beautifully cultivated flower crowns that Ipomoea had so passionately, and effortlessly created. What a gift he had, indeed. One crown in particular caught his eye; one of violet irises and woven green holly.
“May I?” He inquired, his formal tone a bit louder to be heard over the din of joyfully shouting foals at his back, the two youngsters darting through the crowds to go and watch the upcoming dancers perform. The Dawn King cast them a patient, entertained smile before focusing once more upon Ipomoea. “You’ve quite outdone yourself, little brother. It’s all come together beautifully.”
Upon his shoulders, Alba shifted and spread her wings, fluttering from her perch so that she could take purchase on the corner of the stall. Her large black eyes stared curiously at the Regent, and she let out a needy screech. Through their bond, he could feel her yearning for a crown all her own. ’Me, too?’ Somnus chuckled softly beneath his breath, good mirth coating his tone as he asked. “… Have you a crown that might fit an owl as well, good Po?”
she smelled like white roses and felt
as fragile and satiny as her dress.
The day had finally come.
Her ivory curls ghosted like satin over her shoulders as Messalina moved with a dancer's grace through the castle, her hoofbeats as light as air. Freed from their usual braids, strands of her flowing mane danced like liquid mercury in the breeze, bleached white by a halo of golden sun.
After weeks of careful preparation, it still dazzled her how perfectly the regent had pulled off such a grand event. Though she hadn’t contributed much in the end, seldom had her wandering eyes strayed from Ipomoea as he’d rushed in and out of his chambers like a tempest, a storm of vibrant petals fluttering in his wake. She’d offered light suggestions here and there when she’d worked up the courage to knock softly at his door (always to be greeted with a smile equally soft by Po, however tired he had looked); yet her visits had always been made more out of concern than anything.
It pleased Messalina beyond words to see his plans come to fruition so wondrously.
The normally tranquil court was transformed into a spring of bubbling mirth as the festival commenced with cheers, but she didn't linger long before leaving the citadel entirely. The scent of wildflowers caressed her skin as she made her way towards a blooming (quite literally) booth nestled a stone’s throw away from Delumine’s gleaming gates.
His booth, of course.
As she neared, she kept her arrival deliberately sly — only to be discovered almost immediately by Odet’s keen gaze. Messalina widened her eyes in a silent plea as she halted midstride, her curls rustling as she gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Whether from understanding or sheer disinterest, the bluejay turned his head mercifully away, and the girl breathed easy once again.
Cerulean eyes, once as cold as a tundra, softened into summer skies as she watched Ipomoea lay a flower crown gently upon a child’s sable curls. She hesitated only a moment more, before moving to the back of a growing line of patrons all waiting to claim one of the regent’s beautiful creations.
“Good morning! Care for a crown of your own?” he chirped, head still lowered as he fussed over the leaves of a carnation and baby’s breath garland.
“A crown from the master himself — I’d be delighted,” she replied, dulcet lips lifting into a smile. Then — “But first…”She grew silent in concentration as a crimson rose was plucked from her mane, and placed delicately in the wreath of flowers that adorned his dark curls. Tendrils of his forelock moved to wrap securely around the bloom, her telekinesis made precise from the hundreds of intricate braids Messalina had weaved for herself.
It had been a spur of the moment decision — and when her own boldness finally caught up to her, she was already finished. She stared pointedly into his cerise eyes for a beat, until, in a rush of (far too late) embarrassment, she lifted the nearest crown from the table and placed it upon her silver curls before drawing away.
“Well I — I don’t wish to hold up the line any longer. I’ll leave you to it, then,” she nodded with a tip of her head, a true agony to keep her voice steady. Before she turned to leave, however, she hesitantly spun back once more. “I’ll find you again later.”
And with a flourish, she was gone in a flutter of silk and roses.
As another of his customers leaves his booth, with a newly woven crown and a smile to match, a familiar face takes their place.
”May I?” A wide grin splits across Ipomoea’s face, and he nods enthusiastically at the gesture. “Of course you may,” he reassures. “I should have known, the irises and holly suit you so well, Somnus.” Even before the King lifted the crown to his head, Po knew the vibrant green and violet tones would stand out spectacularly against his golden coat.
At the subtle endearment, laughter bubbles unhinged from Ipomoea’s lips. Little brother. From the moment Kasil and welcomed Somnus into the Regime, Po had considered them all family. It brought him uncontainable joy to have the feeling reciprocated, to be greeted just as warmly and fondly, to belong. He never had known his birth family; but what did it matter, with people like Somnus on his side?
“You flatter me,” he chastised the king gently. “I couldn’t have done any of this by myself!” Countless others had helped him in his preparations: from the careful tending of the gardens, to the constructing of the stages and booths and games. Even the dates selected for the length of the festival had been discussed. “But I thank you, brother.”
At the movement of the owl, Po’s smile relaxed fondly. “Well I can certainly make one for Miss Alba.” Plucking a few more violet irises and woven green holly from his stash, he wove an identical, albeit smaller, crown for the king’s bonded.
Finishing his braiding, he gently lifted the circlet of flowers and greens to the owl’s small head. “Perfect!” he decreed, “Matching crowns for a man and his owl.”
He was unaware of Odet’s discovery; the songbird played along, pretending not to notice the freckled dancer approaching. Po’s head had dropped to rearrange his workspace, carefully joining the stem of a carnation to a garland of baby’s breath.
Until her voice took him by surprise.
“Oh!” His breath left him, much like his courage. ’She wants one of my crowns. She called me a master!’ He couldn’t help the way his heart leaped and bounded at her words, taking off like a sprinter in a race the moment his rose colored eyes met her baby blues. “A-any you’d like, of course, Messa.”’They all could be your’s,’ he added on in his head—but oh, how he wished to say it aloud, to promise the pale-skinned girl anything and everything she wished for.
His heart nearly stopped as his extended the rose towards him, savoring the brush of her telekinesis against his skin. Po hardly dared to breathe as the flower was braided delicately into his forelock, joining the wreath of flowers already adorning his brow. But this one… this would be his new favorite.
There wasn’t enough time to collect his thoughts (or catch his breath) before she was sweeping the crown of carnations and baby’s breath off of his table. She tossed it onto her poll, where the delicate garland and bold petals fit oh so perfectly, and was dashing off in an instant. Her words were fleeting, but the flowery Regent held them close to his heart, savoring the promise she made him. It’d be a lie to say his heart didn’t jump, freeze, then sprint at the idea of seeing her again.
“I look forward to it.” He only hoped she heard him before she ran off!
”here am I!”
Messa and Somnus are both perfect and far better than I deserve in my life
she looks into her mirror,
wishing someone could hear her, so loud
She approaches, as soft as any snowfall, as bright as a bonfire in the midst of night, and as content as one could be while standing alongside Asterion. The man who is in every way but personality her opposite offers her a chance to see artists outside of Denocte at work, a sparkling world hers for the taking. Moira has never been rather greedy for much in her life, save the chance to prove her worth within her family. But art... The thought of paintings and drawings and murals, of sculptures and ballets and song, it all fills her with so much yearning that she can almost feel the way her heart breaks at the possibility of missing the event. So she'd agreed to come, and now finds herself at the entryway to the Festival in awe of the man before her.
Deftly he builds crowns for any who wish, weaving stems and petals together, it's as though he was born for this - and perhaps Ipomoea was. The crown upon his own head tilts in the wind, but stands eternal. There is a happiness radiating from him, a shyness now as Moira waits in line, observing how he stumbles when Messalina receives her own diadem of carnations and baby's breath.
Before the phoenix is ready, she presents herself to Ipomoea with a rather shy, baffled smile. Mo knows little of flowers except for those that look lovely on the dining room halls and which are meant for hallway tables and entryways, others that should mark the occasion of a wedding, and even more those that are brought to funerals. But she does not wear them. She wears ties in her hair and bangles about her ankle with matching chains bearing the sun and moon and stars woven throughout her wings. With a furtive glance toward Asterion, Moira leans forward to whisper to the painted man, wishing so much to paint him. "Will you find something you think he'd like on me please?"
@Ipomoea @Asterion weee I hope it's okay I dragged Asterion through here !
Asterion is grateful for Moria’s presence – has he ever been so comfortable with someone so quickly? Perhaps Florentine, but he suspected it was always that way with her – but he is even more grateful for her excitement.
He needs that eager anticipation more than he knows. For his own thoughts are full of a different scent of smoke, a distant line of fire, a goodbye echoed endlessly with each wave that washed up on the beach. Shhhh, the water bade him, but he could not listen.
But the girl beside him is a balm to the ghosts that haunt him. It is easy to match her smiles, to catch the bright gleam in her eyes. Even each step she takes makes music, bangles and chains chiming in song like bells, and they call for him to forget.
The bay stands beside her in line, listening to the conversation that flows around them like a current and admiring the paint stallion’s handiwork. Dawn was a riot of color and bright sun, and for this he was glad, too – lately he could not bear the dark.
When it came Moira’s turn, he bumped her shoulder with his own before she stepped up to the table. As she spoke with the Dawn stallion, he eyed the florists’ worth of blossoms, more colors than he’d ever seen. Part of him wanted to continue without adorning himself, but –
“Something simple,” he asks when it is his turn, and smiles almost sheepishly beneath his tilted crown when he goes to join Moira again.
The next to approach his booth is a whirlwind of contradictions: soft and hard, fiery and gentle. Her voice is welcoming and joyful, despite the blazing colors written upon her skin might have suggested. A bay trails in her wake, his smile mirroring her’s—and it doesn’t take long for Po to put two and two together.
”What a lovely couple,” he muses to himself. He doesn’t know their relation to each other, but he can see with his own eyes how perfectly they match, like opposites attracting. Moira is as vibrant as Asterion is simple, and it simply works. Like a phoenix and a dove.
Her words only seem to affirm his thoughts, and he smiles back at her. “I think that can be arranged,” he whispers back, his tone light and filled with laughter.
Something simple, the bay man requests, and Ipomoea already knows what he plans on making. His telekinesis shifts through his piles of flowers, numerous colors and textures and different kinds of petals burning vibrantly in his gaze. He plucks one flower, then another, and another. He purposefully does his work behind the counter, so that neither woman nor man might see his crafting.
The stems flow together like water, weaving into a beautiful simple braid spotting with flowers of white and yellow. He takes his time tweaking this one then that one, balancing the flower-to-braid ratio with utmost precision.
Finally satisfied, he looks back to his customers with a twinkling eye.
And flourishes two matching crowns for them composed of sunshine daisies and beaming dandelions.
“I hope these are simple enough,” he says, extending the two wreaths to Moira and Asterion.
”here am I!”
@Moira @asterion sorry for the wait <3
Seven days, filled with music and laughter, sunshine and flowers. Seven days of a festival that he had spent the better part of a season eagerly anticipating, each of which had been better than he could have expected.
He had spent much of it behind a booth, crafting together flower crowns and wreaths and bracelets, meeting nearly every man and woman that had wandered their way into the festival. Although Ipomoea would have liked to spend more time enjoying the rest of the festivities, he had no qualms about his position. After all, he had met so many new faces, had enjoyed so many pleasant conversations. And every time he looked across the fields, he saw his handiwork everywhere, petals and leaves adorning nearly every head.
It made him smile.
It was evening time now, the sun setting on the final day of the music and arts festival. Many had already left, returning to their Courts and homes, but several were still wandering about, as if soaking up every last minute. No one had visited his stall or requested a crown in quite some time now, so Po had busied himself with cleaning up.
His task didn’t take long; all he had was to take down the signs and clear off the tabletops.
For a second, he looked down in indecision at the remaining flowers. They had all been picked this morning, their petals still full and vibrant. There were no more crowns to weave, no more manes to braid. They had no purpose.
Slowly, a smile spread across his face.
Scooping up the remaining bouquets, careful to arrange them within his telekinetic grasp, he left the stand behind. His step was light and airy, a fluid trot that carried him back and forth between stage, fields, and forest. Everywhere he went, a trail of petals followed, a flower (or two) given away freely to every person he encountered, a final thank you for enjoying the event.
And of course, he saved a few fully bloomed roses to tuck behind his ear.
”here am I!”
@nobody, this thread is closed! thanks y’all <3
