Post by walkonair on Dec 1, 2015 6:09:20 GMT -5
As evening falls and people gather for the Feast of the Moon, in a quiet forest glade a cloaked figure carrying a great sword stands at the edge of an expanse of grass. A shrug of her shoulders sends the cloak pooling to the ground next to a box of supplies; pale skin and violet fabric gleam faintly as she moves. The sword is placed in the centre of the expanse and adjusted until the hilt faces the east. Then an armful of flowers – ruby-red roses and golden tulips – are collected from the box before she returns to tumble two daggers to the ground beside the great sword.
The blades shine brightly in the moonlight as with fluid grace, the figure begins to sing and then to move. Her slippered feet step over and about them, the slim body turning and twisting with lithe grace. As her dance intensifies, on each spin a flower is cast upwards into the air, rising until its trajectory hits the apex only to tumble to the ground about her; an ever-thickening pile that starts to bury the blades in a fragrant mass of blossoms. Only when every bloom has been cast to the sky and the blades can no longer be seen does she slow her dance until for a moment she is as still as if a statue presiding over a tumbled flower garden.
Then with a swift step, she walks back across the clearing to join a waiting figure. Hands clasped, they depart without a second glance ... leaving the glade as quiet as when they had come.
The blades shine brightly in the moonlight as with fluid grace, the figure begins to sing and then to move. Her slippered feet step over and about them, the slim body turning and twisting with lithe grace. As her dance intensifies, on each spin a flower is cast upwards into the air, rising until its trajectory hits the apex only to tumble to the ground about her; an ever-thickening pile that starts to bury the blades in a fragrant mass of blossoms. Only when every bloom has been cast to the sky and the blades can no longer be seen does she slow her dance until for a moment she is as still as if a statue presiding over a tumbled flower garden.
Then with a swift step, she walks back across the clearing to join a waiting figure. Hands clasped, they depart without a second glance ... leaving the glade as quiet as when they had come.