09-09-2021, 02:46 PM
Parish is so tired now; but the desire to observe the rain as it falls and mutes the wildflowers' brilliance is stronger than her desire to lay down. She studies the gemstone colors: amethyst, topaz, ruby, emerald—all colors that seem so impossibly vibrant that she thinks they must be fed by plant-adept magic. Their beauty is almost too much, and Parish nearly admits to herself that she likes how the gray clouds wash out their colors.
Surprise colors Parish’s widened eyes as a disgruntled filly plops into existence directly in front of her. The palomino takes a surprised step back, scattered rainbow feathers fluffing in apprehension. She frowns, blinking bright eyes as if just as disgruntled by Sickle as Sickle is by the rain.
“Yeah, it was,” she answers quickly, uncertain if she should admit it’s her fault she made the sun go away. There’s a small weight of shame tied to her tongue, a child’s fear that someone would be angry with her for accidentally creating a storm. The frown from before tugs at her mouth again and Parish sighs—as if the whole of the earth could not measure up to the decision she is faced with.
Finally, the filly concedes, “I did it. I didn’t mean to. I can make small thunderstorms but I . . . I’ve never made one this big.” She looks up at the sky as she speaks, but immediately regrets it. As if just peering at the clouds made her power flow, the rain went from a smattering to an onslaught. Parish squeals and her feathers flare again as the rain forces her to shut her eyes and shield her nose.
“I don’t know how to make it stop!” she cries, but a little giggle burbles out after, and she can’t quite say she’s unhappy with the downpour.
Surprise colors Parish’s widened eyes as a disgruntled filly plops into existence directly in front of her. The palomino takes a surprised step back, scattered rainbow feathers fluffing in apprehension. She frowns, blinking bright eyes as if just as disgruntled by Sickle as Sickle is by the rain.
“Yeah, it was,” she answers quickly, uncertain if she should admit it’s her fault she made the sun go away. There’s a small weight of shame tied to her tongue, a child’s fear that someone would be angry with her for accidentally creating a storm. The frown from before tugs at her mouth again and Parish sighs—as if the whole of the earth could not measure up to the decision she is faced with.
Finally, the filly concedes, “I did it. I didn’t mean to. I can make small thunderstorms but I . . . I’ve never made one this big.” She looks up at the sky as she speaks, but immediately regrets it. As if just peering at the clouds made her power flow, the rain went from a smattering to an onslaught. Parish squeals and her feathers flare again as the rain forces her to shut her eyes and shield her nose.
“I don’t know how to make it stop!” she cries, but a little giggle burbles out after, and she can’t quite say she’s unhappy with the downpour.