The sun slips away like a held breath finally exhaled, leaving the Meadow dipped in that purple-orange twilight that always makes Tipsy feel both soft and uneasy. Winter is close—she can taste it in the brittle edge of the air, but autumn never leaves without making a bit of a scene.
A flash erupts across the grass, so bright it splinters the dark behind her eyes. She jolts, hooves skidding in the cooling mud as her head whips toward the Meadow. And then pumpkins, of course.
In some way they call to her, as if emitting an eerie song luring her in.
She moves slowly, hooves careful, tail flicking as if trying to shoo away the cold. Some pumpkins are beautiful, neat little carvings of flowers or moons, some are crude and sharp edged, but none feel quite… hers.
Until she sees it.
A small pumpkin; round, perfectly unremarkable. No carving. No face. The skin is a muted orange, almost shy among the louder, flashier ones. Tipsy pauses in front of it, head tilting. Something in her chest tugs.
Not the most impressive. Not the scariest. Just… quiet. Waiting.
She lowers her muzzle, nudging it gently. The pumpkin rocks once on the grass as if waking up.
“…you’ll do,” she whispers.
With a careful grip of her teeth and a little grunt of effort, she lifts the pumpkin from the ground. It’s warm—strangely warm—and the moment she picks it up, a faint glow begins to pulse from within its shell like a sleepy heartbeat
OOC: wrote in my phone eek!
A flash erupts across the grass, so bright it splinters the dark behind her eyes. She jolts, hooves skidding in the cooling mud as her head whips toward the Meadow. And then pumpkins, of course.
In some way they call to her, as if emitting an eerie song luring her in.
She moves slowly, hooves careful, tail flicking as if trying to shoo away the cold. Some pumpkins are beautiful, neat little carvings of flowers or moons, some are crude and sharp edged, but none feel quite… hers.
Until she sees it.
A small pumpkin; round, perfectly unremarkable. No carving. No face. The skin is a muted orange, almost shy among the louder, flashier ones. Tipsy pauses in front of it, head tilting. Something in her chest tugs.
Not the most impressive. Not the scariest. Just… quiet. Waiting.
She lowers her muzzle, nudging it gently. The pumpkin rocks once on the grass as if waking up.
“…you’ll do,” she whispers.
With a careful grip of her teeth and a little grunt of effort, she lifts the pumpkin from the ground. It’s warm—strangely warm—and the moment she picks it up, a faint glow begins to pulse from within its shell like a sleepy heartbeat
OOC: wrote in my phone eek!