To the divine, mischievous spark in you
It is a beautiful day for telling fortunes, and a beautiful day to change them.
Poppy is as poppies do: red and yellow and white and green, growing wild in a field of flowers with pollinators buzzing about her ears. The grass is supple beneath her bare feet; the sky is brazenly blue above her; the very dirt seems to vibrate with change, jolting through her with every step. The earth is singing, and Persephone listens, ready to follow the song where it leads.
Today that place is a picnic blanket, and the woman who sits atop it.
"Hello, little Seer." Like a bumble bee on a flower petal, Persephone alights at the blanket's edge, her legs crossed comfortably beneath her, elbows upon her knees. "Will you tell me my future?" Her coral smile is quietly beatific; her honey eyes glow in a freckled face. She looks at Alys without hesitation, no acknowledgment of their lost decade in the warmth of that gaze.
There's little fanfare to the thing, and yet something in the air has atmosphere, fundamentally changed. It's as though they've moved into a different realm, shifted ever so slightly from a mundane Caido to one a little more magic. One where Seers and Witches have tea parties in the snow, where little girls are with grandiose dreams are nurtured until they bloom.
Poppy is as poppies do: red and yellow and white and green, growing wild in a field of flowers with pollinators buzzing about her ears. The grass is supple beneath her bare feet; the sky is brazenly blue above her; the very dirt seems to vibrate with change, jolting through her with every step. The earth is singing, and Persephone listens, ready to follow the song where it leads.
Today that place is a picnic blanket, and the woman who sits atop it.
"Hello, little Seer." Like a bumble bee on a flower petal, Persephone alights at the blanket's edge, her legs crossed comfortably beneath her, elbows upon her knees. "Will you tell me my future?" Her coral smile is quietly beatific; her honey eyes glow in a freckled face. She looks at Alys without hesitation, no acknowledgment of their lost decade in the warmth of that gaze.
There's little fanfare to the thing, and yet something in the air has atmosphere, fundamentally changed. It's as though they've moved into a different realm, shifted ever so slightly from a mundane Caido to one a little more magic. One where Seers and Witches have tea parties in the snow, where little girls are with grandiose dreams are nurtured until they bloom.
persephone
