05-02-2021, 07:45 PM
CrownS
He’s surprised at how the bright colors of the reviving plants almost hurt his eyes. Crowns had gotten used to seeing everything in a veil of blues and purples, it seemed, and now the reds and yellows felt like fire in his pupils. But he savors the burn and lets the plants continue pinching off little nibbles of his magic for themselves. The blanched stalks of grass and the wilted flower petals make a feast of these crumbs and stretch into their old shapes so easily with just a little encouragement. Of course, he doesn’t speak to them in the ways his grandmother or Isilya do, but they keep their flower-faces turned to him as though he is their sun. This is more than enough for him.
Crowns lifts his gaze to the stranger when she comes peeking out from behind a tired old oak. Her voice is almost snatched off by the breeze, but he manages to catch her words just enough to make them out. He turns and considers the blistering brightness of the wild grasses a moment. She asks an excellent question, he thinks. Who knows what the world is really meant to look like? So he initially offers only a shrug.
“Maybe parts of it. But it can’t all be the same or it becomes monotonous, don’t you think?” he asks with a gentle chuckle. “Some of my favorite parts of the world don’t have much color at all.”
He thinks of the perfect white snow and how it reflects the sun so bright he has to squint to see, or the blue-black of the ocean when he plunges deep enough beneath the waves. Colors like this wouldn’t stand a chance in those places. But they don’t belong there - they belong right here, in this meadow.
“My name is Crowns. What’s yours?”
Crowns lifts his gaze to the stranger when she comes peeking out from behind a tired old oak. Her voice is almost snatched off by the breeze, but he manages to catch her words just enough to make them out. He turns and considers the blistering brightness of the wild grasses a moment. She asks an excellent question, he thinks. Who knows what the world is really meant to look like? So he initially offers only a shrug.
“Maybe parts of it. But it can’t all be the same or it becomes monotonous, don’t you think?” he asks with a gentle chuckle. “Some of my favorite parts of the world don’t have much color at all.”
He thinks of the perfect white snow and how it reflects the sun so bright he has to squint to see, or the blue-black of the ocean when he plunges deep enough beneath the waves. Colors like this wouldn’t stand a chance in those places. But they don’t belong there - they belong right here, in this meadow.
“My name is Crowns. What’s yours?”
you got me on my knees; i'm your one-man cult.
@[Risa]