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12-24-2015, 09:41 PM
Silver metal glitters in the likeness of little stars fixed in black velvet, leaving a dusting of white snow on the long blades of grass below. Soft song fills the crisp autumnal air, silencing the rhythmic rustle of her long strides moving through the dying thistle and verdure. Her breath comes in long warm draws, purling through the crisp autumnal air. High above, a white raven flies, his sharp red eyes surveying the vast meadow below. Through his eyes, Lothíriel sees a multitude of Helovia's denizens congregating around a tree made of ice; a merry laughing turtle sitting before a birch-made bridge. This piques her interest—why do they gather around the benevolent reptile? Is he a god? A prophet? The tip of her tail twitches with curiosity, and she moves off at a brisk trot, hurrying towards the source of marvel before something else happens.
Along the way, she registers the forms of others—the horned and hornless, the winged and those who bore both wings and those who were tigers (no, she wasn't going to think about that). She nearly passes her own brother, that handsome Machiavellian prince, but digs her hooves into the frosted grass before she does. A smile is tossed his way, cursory and familiar, before she draws beside him, opposite the pretty silver-tressed mare she identifies as Enna. "What's happening?" she whispers, watching the singing turtle with an expression vacillating between wonder and apprehension. On the fringes of the thickening congregation, Lothíriel spots the shadow that is her father, and the dark faces of her ears perk in his direction. Is he similarly captured by the events conspiring?
Along the way, she registers the forms of others—the horned and hornless, the winged and those who bore both wings and those who were tigers (no, she wasn't going to think about that). She nearly passes her own brother, that handsome Machiavellian prince, but digs her hooves into the frosted grass before she does. A smile is tossed his way, cursory and familiar, before she draws beside him, opposite the pretty silver-tressed mare she identifies as Enna. "What's happening?" she whispers, watching the singing turtle with an expression vacillating between wonder and apprehension. On the fringes of the thickening congregation, Lothíriel spots the shadow that is her father, and the dark faces of her ears perk in his direction. Is he similarly captured by the events conspiring?
how the rose in your heart you hold
MERRY CHRISTMAS!! :DD
