There are few things left the way they were, back before the world was new. Before Beqanna remade herself. Weir remembers those things, catalouges them deep in his mind and though it saddens him, they remain there to be thought on when the days are too long and the nights too cold and dark.
One such thing is the Meadow, rolling hills and wildflowers. The green is sweet here, growing in stalks long enough to stroke his belly, the flowers perfumed and delicious. Colors have no limits either, they grow as they wish, pops of orange and purple and pink. Clusters of blue bonnets and shocks of dandelions bleeding yellow among the emerald clovers. Then there is red, his favorite, patches of indian paintbrush spring up in bold strips of color and it reminds him of Christmas.
The glow of lights strung up on houses and oak crackling warm fires in hearths that are surrounded by family and loved ones. He sighs as he reminisces, lost deep within his subconscious, even if the world changed, his memories did not.
One such thing is the Meadow, rolling hills and wildflowers. The green is sweet here, growing in stalks long enough to stroke his belly, the flowers perfumed and delicious. Colors have no limits either, they grow as they wish, pops of orange and purple and pink. Clusters of blue bonnets and shocks of dandelions bleeding yellow among the emerald clovers. Then there is red, his favorite, patches of indian paintbrush spring up in bold strips of color and it reminds him of Christmas.
The glow of lights strung up on houses and oak crackling warm fires in hearths that are surrounded by family and loved ones. He sighs as he reminisces, lost deep within his subconscious, even if the world changed, his memories did not.
WEIR
higitus figitus migitus mum
prestidigitonium
short posts, bleh, but i want to get his traits restored.