Uncovering snippets based on an rp (except they're poems this time)
(Like… how do I explain this one. idfk he held a watering can)
Intuitus held a watering can
Not knowing how it all began
Water came out the spout
And into the soil, barely a drought
The plant has always been called Plant
As far as he remembered, never changing
Even as he took care of it, always arranging
The small tree affixed, without even an unsightly slant
⸻⸻
(In here it's like, dialogue between two people? So it's italicized.)
Don't you think this became an obsession?
His words weaving to a beautiful verse
Expressing his love, everything became worse
After he kneeled to you and uttered his confession
Let him do as he wish
His persistence only but an itch
An annoyance, nothing but a pest infatuated
Delusional in his musings as if we're fated.
These were all in late 2022 – early 2023. Oh yeah, there will be another post except with the poems I (somehow) made for that same rp. But here is the selection:
It was a fantasy she dreamt of, where there would be no conflict and she could finally face who she wronged. And, well, bask in the warm sun and minty breeze with a certain someone.
Snow crunches underneath his footsteps. The weather frosts over his skin, freezing over his tears. Limbs heavy, he needs to find a way. He falls. He stands back up.
He thought the dread that comes with facing direct conflict would be gone once he retired. But when he's faced with something that he thinks should probably be moving, his gaze lingers on a familiar emblem— his blood runs cold.
⸻⸻
(This, in all honesty, is a crackship in said RP. One of them in the pairing isn't even introduced yet.)
Vanya dreams of flowers.
Fields of them, stretching into the horizon. Sometimes they were seas of blue and orange flora, sometimes the tangerines were replaced with sanguines; those instances in her flower-controlled dreams were always amusing to her.
Despite the tribulations she's faced as a general of a nation that attracts danger, even as the scars run deeper than even the layer of flesh under her skin, she finds herself in flower fields frequently, whenever she lays to rest.
The only time she ever dreamt of anything else was something way back, a distant memory. Where sobs wracked her body, hyperventilating, desperate to breathe against the chill air of the eternal winter. Where she's frozen to look at the color of maroon, contrasting on her hands and the stark white of the snow.
Today, instead of dreaming of fearful eye~~s~~ staring back at her, she felt the breeze of morning tickle her feathers, warm against her skin. A prairieland of sunflowers, looking at the rising sun as if it was their liberator from the darkest night. She felt warm, even inside, and it was a mystery why she couldn’t describe why her heart felt caged inside her chest. She had a guess, though, as she was experiencing this “so-called fuzziness” she’s heard in less-than-reputable sources.
The yellow flowers stood tall and strong, admirable for being a part of the delicate flora part of its name came from. Despite the coloration, and the climate in which it grows in, they were used to describe Vanya herself. An odd comparison, coming from a peculiar, endearing individual.
“A beautiful, strong person who possesses the strength to cover those who cannot have them. Cherished by the sun, as if you are one of its own children. Headstrong and imperative, yet warm and inviting— please, continue looking towards your ambitions for me.” Were the words uttered, endearment clinging onto every word.
Even if the sunflowers grew tall, proud of their structure and land taken, she was, by all means, taller than them. Her green eyes looked over from the fields, spotting a shape of scarlet contrasted against the masses of yellows, browns and greens— before she knew it, her feet moved on their own and her body easily pushed aside the stems blocking her way.
Seeing red didn’t invoke a sense of dread in her— far from it, her chest felt light and she could breathe. As if relief had washed over her as she neared towards the figure. Sandy blonde hair adorned with blue and purple garlands (this time, she mentally notes) barely poked out from the sea of sunflowers, yet she could still make it out. How could she not when he smiles as warmly as the sun?
Everything is strange. Her dreams are strange. The person she’s encountered is strange. But she doesn’t care, not when she’s getting all these warm, indecipherable feelings in her dull life.
Perhaps it was how little dreams abide by reality's guidelines, but the person didn’t notice her approach. With only the slightest bit of hesitance, she placed her hand on the shorter one’s shoulder, receiving a squeak of surprise as his head whipped towards her.
“Oh,” he began, a smile creeping on his face. The sun scattered on his face and hair from the sunflowers attempting to shield him, and he almost looked like he was glowing. His voice in her dreams were perfectly matched to the voice of the same man in reality— that is to say, light, soft-spoken, perfect. And when he opened his mouth from his small gape, he uttered the very same words that made her fall deeper that particular day.
“Just as I thought, you look the loveliest among the sunflowers— they really do suit you, don't they?”
A simple description she'd never associated herself with.
⸻⸻
(This was taken directly from a fever dream. Thought the person whose perspective we're seeing would be perfect for it.)
All he could hear was the blaring wind assaulting his ears, harsh on his exposed skin and hair. His encrusted eyes were— well, dry, closing them was painful, blinking them even more so, but letting them remain open was not much better. The pole he dearly held, even now when his hands were shivering and numb, dragged onto the snow as he trudged on.
It isn’t the worst, he’d muse, despite the predicament he’s in. All traces of heat has been seeped from his body, yet he could still afford to take another step in inches deep snow. If he collapsed, he could just pick himself back up again, it was no big deal. The only thing he would fuss about is the amount of time he’d waste face flat on his supposed “deathbed”.
He could barely hold in another, shaky breath. He feels as if his lungs were cracking, the cold reaching far into his throat and depriving moisture. His vision is all too fuzzy, the gray skies blending in with the haphazard amount of with he was familiar with his whole life.
Yet, he noticed a blurry, red object suddenly in front of him. Taking a step towards the unknown item, the next thing he knew was that he nearly crashed into the snow, with the promise of solid cold touching his face simply below him. Thankfully, only his hands and knees sink into the layers of white, the fabric desperately hugging his figure to stave off the cold (ah, to no avail) was anything but dry.
He suddenly took the random apple on the ground, not even questioning why a fruit would be here, in the endless expanse of snow with not a flora in sight. His hand, barely feeling because of his near-collapse, slowly raised it to his lips.
He took a bite.
Liquid fire traveled down his throat. It was neither good nor bad, but what little moisture was inside the fruit was something he was thankful for. Barely.
He took another bite.
The same thing happened again, but. It’s as if snakes (snakes? did they even have those here?) slithered under his skin, posing as veins that never contributed anything. Just a strange, overwhelming feeling he can’t replace.
He took another bite.
He didn’t notice what happened until he bit nearly to the core, the fourth one. He only just realized after seeing crimson splatter on the ground, darker than the apple itself that he ate like ambrosia. Blood poured from his mouth in an inconsistent stream, and the winds screamed louder.
Foolishly, he took another bite.
He couldn’t move his body, forced to have a mouthful full of snow. Despite of his situation, he curled up his body from the ground to protect the apple under him now. As if it was a relic to have, a revered object, a—
He blinks. The storm is loud, yet it whispers into his ear. He was perfectly standing up, with full autonomy of his body. He remained standing there, even as the cold nipped at his skin, but he soon walked off into the expanses again with his pole in hand. Whatever just happened, he won’t be questioning it.
⸻⸻
(Oh, I love both of them. I wish I could do more with them.)
His fingers traced over the engravings of rusting metal, belonging to a hulking, unknown silhouette that looked more like a statue than anything practical. A faint glow emanated from the middle of it, albeit to the eyes of the common, gullible people, that was the only thing worth noting.
He was affixed to the symbol, with a gaze that held nothing but a humming terror.
A snake circling around itself, chasing its own tail with the intention of biting with its fangs. An endless cycle, for the end of itself moves as it does in chase, yet the snake was too determined, making it a perpetual pursuit. Along its back, wings sprouted through the spine and scales of its being, and it had more pairs than any bird.
Rather than being the simplified design of strings on circles, it was the familiar ornateness of it that gave it away. A personal project. He had never thought he would come across one of those again, and that revelation, processing that information sent chills down to his very core. The core.
His eyes trailed up, and up, and up. Slowly, he backs away, with all the caution that even other generals can’t compare even in a time of war. This. How long has this been here before?
