Bearclaw Valley i recounted the memories

"indigo makes green?" merrick rejoined, intrigued. "indigo has always been purple to me. guess i failed color class as a kid." a snap of laughter. "very true," he agreed of the rain's properties. "they'd have to be refreshed quite often."
a malicious cloud passed across his features, then was gone, midwestern thunderstorm moving off across flatlands. "what about purple? little more unexpected than bones and blood." he was warming to the idea of aesthetic, his vanity turgid and eager.