‘That tree you carved. You left in it a mark I had not seen before. For what purpose?’

theslowarrow replied to your post: theslowarrow replied to your post: ...

i thought we were in the short club together

Elves can see in the shadows, you silly lump of forgetfulness.

   ( you did your best bb and handed in assignment and sleep is better than handed in assignment and no sleep. your rest is important and is as vital as academical success, even more so. <3 )   

for the revolution

!!! *beatboxes for you cheerfully*

There is sweetness to death.

Saccharine, the fetor rising from the flesh of the corpse.  A bouquet of illness, lighter than the living salt of an animate being.  It once seemed discordant, that such dulcitude mingled with such wrongness the sticky sap of honey.  An associate smell, the resin to preserve the dead as blood and sinew and soul preserves the living.  

This strange olfaction of honey and death lingers in cool caves, floor dusted in the passing of cancellous chalk and the ossuaries of those who passed forever into the Beyond, who rest in silence swallowed by the dark.

He remembers. But it is easily subsumed in the honeysuckle of the Orchard. The fragrance of a thousand burgeoning buds, hungry petals turned to their only Light.  The miasma of rot enfolded in greedy soil, of elvhen bodies blooming hosts for a fungal embrace.  

It is a long process, the mellification of the husks of the faithful.  Orchard fruits drip heavy and fat, suckling roots shooting eagerly through parched carotids.The rich amber of honey touches the air, sweeter still for the open freshness of it, for the mark of new souls given in greater purpose than arid channels cut through ancient rock and quiet, barefoot keepers to guide the ever more silent dead.