Swiftcurrent Creek close your pretty eyes, my butterfly

thank you for starting~ <3 sorry if i'm a little rusty, it's been a while!

Verdant pools, viridescent, descried upon the fragile serenity with a shroud of solemnity. A curtain of cynicism, as was the tread of his melancholy thoughts, a procession of pessimism in his wake. Mother's benevolent kiss, high upon a crown of smoke - the stroke of warmth across his spine, mirrored ribbons of bygone affection. Summer's touch, or windows into the past? It was not his river; he knew it well.

Indecision, ambivalence. Cast back upon a trail of memory, he would find a shadow of himself lurking at this very ledge, rivulets of running water gyrating fluently beneath his step - mind beyond, encased in thought. Swiftcurrent Creek. Irretrievable, yet not entirely forgotten. A flourishing congregation; it stood no more. As if in mourning, the clouds began to tremble, and from their embrace showered a current of rain to flood the intercises of this meditative ambience. Visage of melancholia deepening, the traveller let his tongue breathe the petrichor of this weeping sky, before shifting his stance and drawing himself to depart.

The longer he mused, the greater his sorrows.

Noise. A voice materialized from the bubbling of the creek, to which his despondent pivoting paused, and lifted once more his snout to the heavens. It lacked familiarity, as did most. Warped in stoicism, he situated himself there for a solid heartbeat as the drizzle pooled around his figure, pondering departure - it was only as the voice continued, baring foreign words to the zephyr, did his curiousity finally take hold. Back into the gathering mist did he peer, a man of smoke himself; enigmatic.

Poised at the water's edge, a little beyond himself: a figure. They had escaped his vision during contemplation, but now stuck out like a sore thumb against the monochrome. He blamed this oversight on the thickening of the air. Rain was adept at masking all beneath it, scents and sights alike, clinging to the earth as a film of dew. She was speaking - to whom, he couldn't say, for her words were in a tongue he didn't recognise, but the Valento chose to remain in place beside the creek, watching idly with a veil of confused consideration as the wisp muttered to the wind.

A sea of strangers - he could avoid them if he persued his solitude, but loneliness was destined to set in eventually, and he would long for company. This morning was no exception.