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[crittersheep]

WHO: all
WHERE: all
WHEN: Day 9, evening into night

[the sun goes down; the two moons rise.

it all looks...quite different. the laundromat lengthens and transforms the silhouette of Woolietown in the distance. the lighthouse beacon comes to life for the first time, throwing strong, brilliant light and stark shadows across the meadow and into the barns. the lazy river encircles the pasture in a glittering band, the bobbing shapes of the pool toys a little bit eerie until they drift into full view.

perhaps some of you are winding down. perhaps some of you are just gearing up for a wild adventure in the shadows. perhaps some of you, regardless of if you sleep or stay up, find your dreams and nightmares crawling out beyond the bounds of your own head tonight, drawing others in...

the night is full of possibilities.]

Comments

[featherduster]

Oh! You're more talkative than usual.

[ Taking this in stride, as if an answer from the flowers and the trees is not certifiably insane.

Spreading his flesh hand out over the grass, as if reaching back. ]

Though . . . you're more of something else too. I can't quite put my finger on it.

[beathollow]

( talkative? them? never. why, they won't even mention what the beavers down by the lake are getting up to now!

mostly, despite the almost eerie air to the black wood and leaves, the pitch grass dotted with only red and blue and purple, the surrounding foliage seems happy. whatever else could they be? )

[featherduster]

[ What else could they be?

He lays back, fingers grasping for one of the red flowers ]

Won't you tell me your stories?

[beathollow]

( they do! they tell him of the new sproutlings in the underbush.

they tell him of the tallest trees and the birds taking shelter in it's branches.

they tell him of a herd of deer, crossing over the river.

they tell him of a fox, and a rose, and a boy.

they tell him of turtles and snakes and mice.

they tell him of a princess, lost in the dark, crying. )

[featherduster]

[ Nods, nods, that all makes sense--

Wait . . . ]

A princess? Lost . . . ?

Where?

[beathollow]

( the flowers do not answer, but the wind seems to change directions, and they sway to point towards the darker part of the forest. this way. this way. this way... )

[featherduster]

[ Well, what is a man to do but follow? No princess should be lost in the woods.

He pats the flowers thanks, then gets to his feet and follows the blowing wind. ]

[beathollow]

( the forest is dark, gnarled and sharp. easy to get lost in, and easy for fear to overcome. sometimes the wind seems to whisper.

You don't need this anymore, right?

My child is going to become a ... like no other- of course, I'm very proud of her.

You haven't become a bad girl, have you?

Please, good hunter... carve out that traitorous heart of hers.

With each word, the crying seems to grow louder, until he may find her curled up in the hollow of an old, barren tree, shoulders shaking quietly with the sort of sobs that no longer come with tears but still carry the ache and grief that can't be kept lest it kills. )