08-22-2010, 12:40 PM
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Table by Requiem
Fwee <3
It was the voice of the little girl that always had carried the grieving clouds of rain within her entire being. The world was not always beautiful, and the young leader knew that Vesle had seen cruel things too early in life. She had been maimed. He had seen it in the quiet silver within her somber eyes. He had seen it in her shy velvety gray form. This was one of the reasons why he had let her go those months ago where Brown and stained silver sought a different horizon away from Dahlia de Mai. Conor was the gate keeper, but it was not his place to overrule destinies that belonged elsewhere. Her voice drew him as the moth drew to the scorching flame, but she was soft and harmless and provided him only with sorrowful contentment when those lilac hues finally found her small, seated form.
Arms painted in cream and caramel opened as the Dahlian stepped towards the child that no longer was a child.
”Vesle.” Her name was spoken in a breath several shades warmer than the coming whispers of autumn. He was not her father and would never try to be, but it was with a father’s loving voice he spoke. He reached for her, wanted to pull her up from her lonely seat and embrace her. He wanted her to know that she had been missed sorely.
It was the voice of the little girl that always had carried the grieving clouds of rain within her entire being. The world was not always beautiful, and the young leader knew that Vesle had seen cruel things too early in life. She had been maimed. He had seen it in the quiet silver within her somber eyes. He had seen it in her shy velvety gray form. This was one of the reasons why he had let her go those months ago where Brown and stained silver sought a different horizon away from Dahlia de Mai. Conor was the gate keeper, but it was not his place to overrule destinies that belonged elsewhere. Her voice drew him as the moth drew to the scorching flame, but she was soft and harmless and provided him only with sorrowful contentment when those lilac hues finally found her small, seated form.
Arms painted in cream and caramel opened as the Dahlian stepped towards the child that no longer was a child.
”Vesle.” Her name was spoken in a breath several shades warmer than the coming whispers of autumn. He was not her father and would never try to be, but it was with a father’s loving voice he spoke. He reached for her, wanted to pull her up from her lonely seat and embrace her. He wanted her to know that she had been missed sorely.