Even the festivities around Floaroma can’t seem to distract her from the pangs within her gut. Dawn beelines through the crowds, people exchanging bouquets between themselves and showering the parade procession with petals and confetti. There’s music, dancing, a general sense of cheer among the patrons of the Flower Festival—all in honor of the deity that’d blessed the once barren land with an array of blossoming color.
A time of cheer, and gratitude. Neither of which becomes Dawn.
Instead, there’s a hollowness that accompanies her to the edge of the wood from which he observes: stoic, contemplative, unreadable. Dawn knows even littler of him today than she had a decade prior, the sands of time swallowing much of what was known with the passing of each day. She isn’t quite sure what his intentions are, here at the Flower Festival, or how he even managed to escape the Distortion World.
The Distortion World... oh, how it still haunts her dreams.
She approaches from behind, knowing full well he most likely noticed her long before she took note of him. Twigs snapping beneath her feet, she gathers her voice from beneath the bubble in her throat, the tone speculative if nothing else. “Decided to enjoy the Festival from all the way over here?”
