08-23-2021, 10:10 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-27-2021, 10:36 PM by Riannon. Edited 2 times in total.)
[narrow width=800]
gone was she from her mists threaded through with late lilac-scent; gone from her wood-violets and their dark green leaves; gone from the little blossoms called innocence, and those such who were near personified in the forms of her three daughters. one might have been of her blood, but the others were just as precious, just as savagely loved. so it pained her, as it always did, when she left them – left them in the care of @Astier as she followed the words of the frostclaw to seek out the sprawling, hallowed garden mentioned. left them, for now, and set out into the sharpness of blue morning with the current of the early sun washing over her longing.
it is quiet here.
and it was good.
she is loathe to speak; to break the silent, guarded reverie. so instead the nightingale allows the garden to draw her into its abundant arms, the strange delight of all the flowers of this northern corner filling her nose and mouth and throat as she pushes through fronds, scuffs over pebble and bits of ice.
she would find what she needed here, indeed;
would return to her daughters when it was found.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u
tiny post for @Tiberius ♡ other tags just for reference!
gone was she from her mists threaded through with late lilac-scent; gone from her wood-violets and their dark green leaves; gone from the little blossoms called innocence, and those such who were near personified in the forms of her three daughters. one might have been of her blood, but the others were just as precious, just as savagely loved. so it pained her, as it always did, when she left them – left them in the care of @Astier as she followed the words of the frostclaw to seek out the sprawling, hallowed garden mentioned. left them, for now, and set out into the sharpness of blue morning with the current of the early sun washing over her longing.
it is quiet here.
and it was good.
she is loathe to speak; to break the silent, guarded reverie. so instead the nightingale allows the garden to draw her into its abundant arms, the strange delight of all the flowers of this northern corner filling her nose and mouth and throat as she pushes through fronds, scuffs over pebble and bits of ice.
she would find what she needed here, indeed;
would return to her daughters when it was found.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u