The forest is quiet enough that she can hear her own heartbeat. Cold light filters through the bare branches, thin and silver, and Tipsy steps into it like she is stepping into a dream. Frost gathers on the water lilies blooming from her chest. Fox-fire drifts around her in soft green flickers. Her antenna twitch at every shift of the wind. Her neon wings glow faintly in the pale snowlight, and her elongated ears catch every faraway creak of frozen wood.
Something inside her has been stirring for days. A tight, restless feeling, as if her mind is unconsciously pulling her in every which way. It’s strange, and yet it compels her to act, as an unearthly voice rises inside her chest, low and echoing, as if whispered from somewhere deep beneath the earth. Try it. Twist the words. Make a rhyme. Speak and see what follows.
Tipsy stiffens. She looks around, but no one stands near her. The voice is inside her. She knows it. She feels it.
“I do not rhyme,” she says under her breath. ”I do not even know how.” But her attention is drawn upward to a squirrel on a tall pine tree, clinging to the bark, watching her with wide winter eyes.
“Come down,” she calls softly. The squirrel does not move, of course this wouldn’t work. But the strange voice hums again, airy and layered, impossible to place. Not like that. A riddle. A rhyme. Small and simple.
Tipsy feels her heart jump. She does not understand this power. She only knows she is being nudged toward something new. She licks her lips and tries, her mind beginning to weave words together upon her own mental loom. She doesn’t know what she’s doing until the words slip out a hint of uncertainty laced into each syllable, “Cold on the tree, warm by me. Come down and see.”
The rhyme is small. Childish. She winces at how silly it sounds. Nothing happens. “See?” she mutters. “It does not even—”
The squirrel climbs down.
Slow, careful, tail twitching, it inches its way toward her along the pine trunk. Tipsy’s breath catches in shock. “I… did not mean for you to actually…”
She steps back quickly as the squirrel ventures close enough to touch. The fox-fire around her hooves brightens in a startled glow. Inside her chest, the unearthly voice falls quiet, heavy and satisfied.
Tipsy trembles. She does not know what she has awakened in herself. She only knows she did not have this gift before. Not like this.
@“Squirt”
OOC: Wrote this on my phone so sorry if there are any typos eeek
Something inside her has been stirring for days. A tight, restless feeling, as if her mind is unconsciously pulling her in every which way. It’s strange, and yet it compels her to act, as an unearthly voice rises inside her chest, low and echoing, as if whispered from somewhere deep beneath the earth. Try it. Twist the words. Make a rhyme. Speak and see what follows.
Tipsy stiffens. She looks around, but no one stands near her. The voice is inside her. She knows it. She feels it.
“I do not rhyme,” she says under her breath. ”I do not even know how.” But her attention is drawn upward to a squirrel on a tall pine tree, clinging to the bark, watching her with wide winter eyes.
“Come down,” she calls softly. The squirrel does not move, of course this wouldn’t work. But the strange voice hums again, airy and layered, impossible to place. Not like that. A riddle. A rhyme. Small and simple.
Tipsy feels her heart jump. She does not understand this power. She only knows she is being nudged toward something new. She licks her lips and tries, her mind beginning to weave words together upon her own mental loom. She doesn’t know what she’s doing until the words slip out a hint of uncertainty laced into each syllable, “Cold on the tree, warm by me. Come down and see.”
The rhyme is small. Childish. She winces at how silly it sounds. Nothing happens. “See?” she mutters. “It does not even—”
The squirrel climbs down.
Slow, careful, tail twitching, it inches its way toward her along the pine trunk. Tipsy’s breath catches in shock. “I… did not mean for you to actually…”
She steps back quickly as the squirrel ventures close enough to touch. The fox-fire around her hooves brightens in a startled glow. Inside her chest, the unearthly voice falls quiet, heavy and satisfied.
Tipsy trembles. She does not know what she has awakened in herself. She only knows she did not have this gift before. Not like this.
@“Squirt”
OOC: Wrote this on my phone so sorry if there are any typos eeek