11-03-2025, 01:33 PM
a little peace, a little love
a little bliss, is that enough?
a little bliss, is that enough?
She was born from a dream.
Eludora awoke from her mother’s dream tangled in the earth, in vines and roots. She stood on spindly legs next to her sister, white and gold and pink with branches in her mane and tail that would later bloom into cherry blossoms. Crania. She is beautiful.
The jungle plants bent towards their mother, reaching for her as though they were her children too, and flowers bloomed under Crania’s touch. Dora remembers wondering how Crania and Isilya could be so grounded while she felt so far away. Even in her first moments, she felt different. Felt the need to escape the ground.
It didn’t take long for her to understand her affinity for the sky. She, of course, couldn’t see the clouds reflected on her body: pure white on a beautiful summer day, gray and murky during a rain storm, the purples and pinks of a sunset. She couldn’t see how her edges blur, how her mane and tail were just wisps, nearly intangible.
But she knew when she took a leap on a particularly foggy day and landed precariously on a cloud that quickly deposited her deeper into the jungles of Tephra. She knew when she confronted a cloud sheep who had been following her a little too closely. Just as her mother and sister were of the earth, she was of the skies.
She was born from a dream, birthed in the earth, but lives in the clouds.
“Cirri?” Dora searches, rolling lazily out of a low-hanging cloud and onto the hard ground of the meadow. It’s early winter in Beqanna, and yellow-tinged morning clouds linger overhead.
“Oh, there you are,” she says, yawning. Her breath hangs in the air, a fleeting ghost of warmth.
The cloud sheep floats nearby; he has always preferred hovering to standing on his own feet. She does too, to be honest, but after forgetting how to walk following a full year of never touching the ground as a young girl, she has also learned the importance of stretching her legs. He is quiet. She chats enough for the both of them — chirping on about the cold, or the dirt, or how sad the trees look without leaves, or wondering when the first snow will fall this year. Poor Cirri is used to being talked at by now, offering little in return.
Dora has gotten her fill of stretching after a few hours. The sky has mostly cleared and the sun beams overhead; she stretches her neck and raises her head, eyes closed, breathing in the crisp air, the stillness of the meadow. She calls for one of the white pillowy clouds, and when it arrives she steps into it gently. She nearly disappears into it altogether when she lies down, her body white and soft.
“Perfect for a snack,” she exhales, holding the cloud close enough to the ground that she can reach for the long, brown grass.
Eludora awoke from her mother’s dream tangled in the earth, in vines and roots. She stood on spindly legs next to her sister, white and gold and pink with branches in her mane and tail that would later bloom into cherry blossoms. Crania. She is beautiful.
The jungle plants bent towards their mother, reaching for her as though they were her children too, and flowers bloomed under Crania’s touch. Dora remembers wondering how Crania and Isilya could be so grounded while she felt so far away. Even in her first moments, she felt different. Felt the need to escape the ground.
It didn’t take long for her to understand her affinity for the sky. She, of course, couldn’t see the clouds reflected on her body: pure white on a beautiful summer day, gray and murky during a rain storm, the purples and pinks of a sunset. She couldn’t see how her edges blur, how her mane and tail were just wisps, nearly intangible.
But she knew when she took a leap on a particularly foggy day and landed precariously on a cloud that quickly deposited her deeper into the jungles of Tephra. She knew when she confronted a cloud sheep who had been following her a little too closely. Just as her mother and sister were of the earth, she was of the skies.
She was born from a dream, birthed in the earth, but lives in the clouds.
“Cirri?” Dora searches, rolling lazily out of a low-hanging cloud and onto the hard ground of the meadow. It’s early winter in Beqanna, and yellow-tinged morning clouds linger overhead.
“Oh, there you are,” she says, yawning. Her breath hangs in the air, a fleeting ghost of warmth.
The cloud sheep floats nearby; he has always preferred hovering to standing on his own feet. She does too, to be honest, but after forgetting how to walk following a full year of never touching the ground as a young girl, she has also learned the importance of stretching her legs. He is quiet. She chats enough for the both of them — chirping on about the cold, or the dirt, or how sad the trees look without leaves, or wondering when the first snow will fall this year. Poor Cirri is used to being talked at by now, offering little in return.
Dora has gotten her fill of stretching after a few hours. The sky has mostly cleared and the sun beams overhead; she stretches her neck and raises her head, eyes closed, breathing in the crisp air, the stillness of the meadow. She calls for one of the white pillowy clouds, and when it arrives she steps into it gently. She nearly disappears into it altogether when she lies down, her body white and soft.
“Perfect for a snack,” she exhales, holding the cloud close enough to the ground that she can reach for the long, brown grass.
