Yr’s Weaver, the Boy King, and another unknown to her are positioned within the heart of the realm. Having no recollection of the festival, not the sort to seek out bright lights and large gatherings in the usual-dark of the valley, the image before her is peculiar and new, despite that she had once lived here before, for a short duration of time. Narrowing her eyes from where she watches from the failing night and the cleaving shadow beneath the tall pines, the maiden of mayhem deems to deduce what it is that they are doing, all while her tail lazily strikes against her sides, and the northern winds whisper through the branches of the pine forest she hides among.
Her giggles, perhaps perceivable even from this clandestine distance from the foray, are stifled, somewhat, and not as common, their plethora replaced with occasional bouts, much like the breeze that rides through the valley from time to time. They rise while she watches the greedy bird steal away with bits of metal and chipped hoof, bone and shell, stone and lost gem; she sings her breathy song of laughter with each small death of the plants ripped from their holds in the Earth. At last, her giggles become to many and her curiosities too steep to avoid the light which rises and stains the sky red, and with a shudder and nervous glance towards the Sun snuggled in the horizon’s holster, she snakes her way with a peculiar path to almost press her sides into the now cloaked flanks of Weaver.
“Yes,” she drawls, slowly, giggles puncturing each breath in ones or threes or dozens; her gaze roves over to the indigo one (who looks at the painted one with eyes whetted by lust) while she croons in her childish simper, and her lips curve upwards into a Cheshire’s overly broad, purely twisted grin, what are we doing here?
[ OOC: Belooooved's here to be creepyyyy ~ ]
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[O] time honored traditions [FESTIVAL PREP II]
