Pitic the dwarf

・꧁．━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━．꧂・

It was raining, like today. A hundred years ago. The flowers were blooming in every colour of the rainbow. One flower, in particular, blossomed so well. The name of this flower was Pitic. So fragile, so demure. Once so effervescent, now withering. Her ethereal scent of decaying flooded every part of Romania. A rather dulcet hint of pain hung breathtakingly in the air.

ﾟ･:，｡ﾟ･:，｡★ﾟ･:，｡ﾟ･:，｡☆ﾟ･:，｡ﾟ･:，｡★ﾟ･:，｡ﾟ･:，｡☆ﾟ Erstwhile, people fell in love with the petrichor. They grew to become pluviophile and euphorically. So obsessed with the lissome figure of Pitic. Mirroring, what once was one without knowing. Unbeknownst to their mere, lugubrious end, the people of the kingdom did every most quintessential to stay in their state of halcyon. Too addicted to even make out their nemesis. Blinded by egotism. Blind for mercy and altruism. Woebegone tears fell onto Pitic's gown as she sat in the darkroom, hiding. The people spouted untoward curses upon their beloved redolent. Like the dalliances between all humans, Pitic was ephemeral as well.