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|| Current Year & Season: Spring of 427 || Based on Eyewitness accounts and the absolute state of denial the Freedom Pirates find themselves in, they have now confirmed that Lucy, after a years' investigation, died of her terminal condition. Information was gained by WISH's Chief of Staff of the CDC, Mr. Beckman. || Abyssal has decided to hang up her cape after the news of Lucy's death and entrusts her lineage to a hopeful young one, Sub-Zero. Reporters asked a few newer members about Abyssal's retirement and they gave mixed responses.|| “I ain’t going back to Elysium for no damn reward. Fuckers insane.” - Newest Vitality Member, Big Smoke. No extra information was given to explain his ranting. ||


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Butterfly [Main, Open]
Topic Started: Nov 11 2016, 09:09 AM (311 Views)
EraMemory
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The tiny butterfly flitted its wings. It danced its tranquil dance through the air, fluttering from flower to flower, leaf to leaf. The sakura nor the plum blossoms were not in bloom yet this time of the year, but their gown of pale, light green leaves were still a thing of beauty to behold, beautiful rows of them lit serenely by the soft silver of the Kyoto moon.

The butterfly was not searching for nectar, or pollen. Its wings were par-transparent, a delicate structure of hundreds, thousands of tiny little scales, each a small gem that glinted emerald when caught in the light, briefly spilling a kaleidoscope of an opal's rainbow as it passed. The wings beat silently, unable to move very fast or far in the draftless evening. It came to rest on another branch of a shrub nearby; long, splindly legs grasping the bark, tiny hooks springing to latch themselves as footholds. They, too, were of a similar material as the wings were; a crystal mineral, of a faded aquamarine hue, as were the body from head to antenna. Anatomically correct down to the smallest intricate detail, the little crystal replica of an insect was nothing short of a masterful work of an artist.

Or someone who had a lot, a lot, a lot of time picturing and perfecting their craft with nothing else to do.

Cold.

The loss in concentration caused the butterfly to falter midair for a second, but it caught itself and soon it was fluttering yet again, off in search of... whatever. It couldn't actually see anything; not the green of the trees, nor the silver moon reflected in the water under the bridge, or the barest tinge of pink of the flowerbuds preparing for their full foliage come spring. It couldn't smell the faint scents in the air; none of the crisp scent of grass, or the rich pungence of soil. It could not hear the sound of flowing water, of chirping crickets by the bay, not the last finale of the day of songbirds come back to nest, nor the faraway sounds of cars and the city in the distance. All it offered was a faint spatial awareness of its surroundings for its creator- but more than that, a sensation of the most precious yet taken for granted commodity of them all.

Freedom.

The crystal butterfly flitted down to perch on the handrails of the bridge, its wings opening and closing slowly. It had no purpose more than to explore- but even that was a much treasured privilege for one deprived of many.
Edited by EraMemory, Nov 16 2016, 01:52 AM.
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