Firefly Ravine all the way to cassadaga to commune with the dead
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Ooc — Rosie
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There were many things that the druid woman loved about the spring, after winter had moved on and the frost had all thawed. What was there not to love? The air was tepid and growing warmer; the rains came heavy and fast, cleansing the earth; the flora rebounded from the inescapable ice. Olive found that she could stray farther and farther from Elysium and feel relatively safe doing so. The atmosphere was no longer hostile, and the hushed willows were no longer her only sanctuary.

But above all else, the sylph loved being able to return to the waters. She bathed in Elysium’s river even when it ran frigid — but playing in a lake or stream made of sun-warmed tea was a bliss that rivaled even her most lovely of dreams. It was a true shame that the only large body of water within the willows lay at the foot of a waterfall, and the waters churned relentlessly. It meant that she must turn elsewhere to find what she sought, but she needn’t go far.

To the north there lay a river, and a small knuckle of the river became a craggy ravine where the waters slowed and flowed in on itself and stymied. Here, it was possible to find small pools where the strength of the river slowed and the water — you guessed it — could even be mistaken for warm. Without pausing, the woman entered the swirling streams until it almost ran over her withers, enjoying the way it refreshed her limbs and cushioned her belly. She walked in circles until she reached a depth where she could go no further and she stayed there, like a pale, furry crocodile and felt herself become lighter; cleansed. 

She looked up; there was a boulder by the creek’s edge, and atop the boulder, a most beautiful flower. It looked full and a deep purple, the likes of which she had not seen in months. Perhaps if she could take it by the roots, she might be able to transplant it back within the willows, in her garden.  The druid waded forward and place both forelegs on the monolith, larger than anything she could climb. But the flower tempted and teased her, and if she had not been so very pregnant, she might have actually attempted it.
and all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams
are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams
in what ethereal dances, by what eternal streams

Messages In This Thread
all the way to cassadaga to commune with the dead - by Olive - April 01, 2019, 08:38 PM