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Razekiel Lykoi · 07-02-2011, 08:51 AM

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And long live the legend that greenery loves conversation!

He made quite the noise, moving along with guitar in hand, scouring what he remembered clearly as the very same Moaning Wood of his childhood, so many years prior. Of course, that was in name only; much had changed to the dear old forest since he'd grown, left the original Inferni and missed the great blaze that razed the land. Perhaps more now than ever, its name was eerily appropriate: Razekiel himself heard the wails and moans of the long-dead plant life in one ear, while the other heard only the cries of newborns: the planted seeds and dancing sprouts reviving themselves ever so slowly. It was a glorious occasion, to stroll through and hear their desperation, knowing that despite the terror that had ravaged them they lived on still, hidden away beneath soot and sand.

And thus he whipped out the lovely acoustic Aube de Musique had so graciously gifted him in the stead of his lost guitar somewhere in the mountains, and with smoking joint between teeth and bejeweled fingers at the strings, he sang — hollered, really — to the dead land around him. His voice would revive them, encourage them to grow once more, for plants loved conversation! And why would they not listen to the child of Mother Earth, to her most faithful of followers? The forest's wails and cries numbed, and in his head he believed them to be listening eagerly to his every word and note, and in their remnants he breathed inspiration and life back into their roots.

Spinning and dancing in step, his singing remained hardly on tune but with great enthusiasm in substitution; he believed himself to be alone with nature, one with the land both dead and alive, until mid-verse his rose-tinted straw eyes fell upon a rosy, curvy figure nose-deep in a journal. Razekiel did not halt his singing, no, that would be far too predictable! He continued strumming and singing wildly as if nothing had changed, but his direction shifted to her, and still dancing and yodeling he drew near, then plopped down beside her as if friends for eternity. One last hollering note and chord and the music rang to silence, and with that the red-faced coyote smiled teeth, eyes and joint at her undauntedly. "My, look at those peepers," he said, ducking up and down to try and see into her gaze. "You're as lovely as the newborn spring in this place of death! Tell me, tulip, what's to write?"

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