Oriash
they promised that dreams can come true
It is a strange thing to be called pretty in the way he says it. She knows, in some part of her, that she is a strange but pretty thing. Though she has never worn beauty as armor, never wielded it as a weapon. She is used to the appraising stare of another woman who sees her as a rival (for what, Ori never has a clue); she is used to the stare of those that see Kagerus in her spots and antlers, Solace in her wings and the blue of her.
She is not used to boys who call her pretty and simply seem to mean it.
Beneath his words she can find no ulterior motive, no malice. It seems like simple flirting, perhaps in the way Pteron flirts (which is to say just as easily as he breathes), but even Pteron seems sincere. She does not doubt Kildare’s sincerity.
If she were capable of it, she would blush. She is very thankful she is not capable of it.
Instead she focuses on his grin, that look in his eye that eggs her on. The possibilities stretch before her and she doesn’t feel uncomfortable anymore, finding herself able to meet his eyes with excitement rather than embarrassment. “Would you like a forest of pretty girls to stare at?” she says, finding a boldness she didn’t know herself capable of.
Though she doesn’t actually paint a forest of pretty girls. Instead she takes them somewhere else, to a place she’s heard of but never seen. It is not the real place, of course, because she doesn’t know what it once looked like, but still tales inspire her illusions all the same.
Around them the trees change, more springing up to fill the space. Everything is green, green, green. Shrubs and vines tangle around their feet. The canopy above blocks out the sun. Flowers of all shapes and sizes bloom in the greenery she creates, and the temperature warms and the air becomes damp and sticky. It is a jungle, and it is stunning.
“I am either an artist or a dreamer, I suppose. Maybe both. I would paints worlds if I could, but I can only manage smaller pieces of the world. Like this. I’ve heard that once, there was an all mare land in Beqanna called the Amazons. It was a jungle of sorts. I suppose I imagine it looked like this.” She is surprised to find herself talking so freely to him. Once she barely spoke, and though that has begun to change she still communicates better through illusions than words. And yet truth pours out of her now.
The illusions is also exhausting to hold though, and so she doesn’t keep it up for long. She lets him see it, enjoy it, and then the illusion fades. “Tell me, what would you like to see?” It is her favorite thing, to paint what others dream and tell her.
but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too.
@[Kildare]
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission