«Remarkable... It appears as though the list of that cursed, false king’s victims seems to be ever-growing...»

❛ ... rurukyu ?? ❜

her voice is trembling , eyes watering on the mere sight of him. he's so much older than she remembered , floette's heart aches. she looks up from her place in his palms , tiny hands gripping her flower's stem tightly. she dared not to hope. after so long , 3,000 long & lonely years , floette couldn't stand to get her hopes up.

is it you ??

❛ kyuru ... ❜

hesitantly , her tiny hand is placed on his before she floats up , her expression turning bright as she meets his eyes. the tears spill over her cheeks despite the smile she wears now.

❛ kyururu !! ❜

( ultimafleur )

@ultimafleur

     This creature is no pokemon found in Hisui—or, at least, not anymore; not for a long time. The latter,  piece of information that alludes Sarana, yet the sentiment is all the same. This tiny being, holding in her grasp a flower larger than herself, has come all this way. Traversed the seas, avoided danger, just to visit this land. Moreover, here she is, twirling about before the medium’s own eyes, attempting to hide behind the twirl of that plucked piece of flora. Surely, it must know that it is an attempt in vain. Could it be some playful? The way that all of this species greet other beings? Or is she perhaps a shy sort, creating a barrier so that the pokemon might feel a little more at east with the idea of interacting with a human?

     Whatever the reason, a hand covered in floral lace moves to cradle the woman’s chin, one finger tapping against the flesh of her cheek in a rhythmic fashion.

          “My, I wonder what this very inconspicuously spinning flower could be hiding…”

     Sarana muses, voice rising and falling in a melodious, if not playful tone. There would be no point in demanding the pokemon to show herself, nor convince her to drop the flower and do so. No, if it wishes to interact with her properly, it must be by the creature’s own volition. Her own choice, made without external stresses or pressure.

( ultimfleur )

@ultimafleur

     It is nights like these that Serena tries to commit to memory. The stillness of air embraced by a veil of darkness, stars faintly shimmering off in the distance as though throwing back their smiles not unlike how a parent might from behind polished glass, giggles of her own and trills from the fairy-type echoing into the distance despite the sounds being meant for none other than themselves. A common language need not be determined; not between two beings of similar fates, separated by thousands of years in instance. They are living proof of a cycle—of humankind’s mistakes; the result of desperation and greed; given so much only after everything was just as forcefully taken away. To say that Serena adores these quiet nights in Floette’s presence would be an understatement. And perhaps, in the depths of her mind, wisps of comfort form from hazy memories of joining the fae in the meadow of her hometown—the familiarity of time spent with a previously mysterious figure now made known and dear to the heroine’s heart.

     When the fairy-type takes to the skies, glowing and wonderful, to put on the tiniest of shows, the light itself is one Serena can pinpoint without question. The sort seen radiating from her own form on its own, when in the presence of stones cursed with similar energy. Soft and glittering, as though the stars themselves had formed the light and was, in its natural state, part of all beings—living or dead. Beautiful but burdened with melancholy. The energy of Xerneas and Yveltal both—is that not its origin? A mixture of deities with domain over such a cycle, but exposed to latter’s gift against all parties’ wills. And as it lifts into the sky, she can see it returning to the cosmos, pinkish hues barely noticeable amongst pristine whites and glacial cyan.

     They fit among the stars, the constellations. Of her ancestors and ancient heroes, immortalised in the night sky for all to see. And she recalls tales passed down through generations of origins that were given their name from the heavens and skies above. Her blood celestial, and Floette’s primordial, but both blessed by the Gods above. She wonders, would their stories be accepted by those who placed others, humans and pokemon alike, in the night sky? Has their suffering been strong enough; their will befitting that of ancient stories? Or would both be rejected, for living and dying by the hands of those who tried to play god, serving a purpose in the present, on the earth, than in the heavens?

     Oh, but has Xerneas not said before that they are both as beautiful as those stars she envies?

     A smile tugs on the corners of her lips, gentle and joyed. How easily entertained they are, by seeing one another turn their curses into fleeting moments of happiness. Truly, if one were to say their roles now have shifted to guiding others to the light—to healing, to bettering the world, to preventing future tragedy by embodying hope—, those also privy to the scene would not object. Maybe that is why the starlight she feels upon her skin feel akin to warm, reassuring hands supporting her form, as opposed to sharpened strings forcing the young woman to stay standing. Slate blue eyes flicker from Floette to the night sky once more. Would they be entertained by the display, too? Feeling triumph in how they refuse to succumb to despair?

     Regardless, one thought gnaws at the back of her mind—a single, troublesome statement capable of sowing the seeds of dread in the young woman’s heart:

Floette twirled around Ree, smiling all the while, a skip to her steps across the air.

— oh! They know this Pokémon. It’s the evolution of Flabebe. The child reaches out a hand, offering a palm for her to rest in.

Send me “ ☕ “ for my muse to drink tea uniquely flavored after your muse, and I’ll tell you what my muse tastes. (Accepting)

@ultimafleur

The drink looks inviting, and the liquid warms your hands through the cup, heat seeping into your fingers pads.

but the first sip is startlingly bitter. You continue to drink despite it, and the bitterness does quickly fade, but the hint of that first swallow rests on your tongue. Strong emotions are elicited from this cup. You finish the drink and hold it in your grip.

“… oh.”

It’s … bread? And he definitely didn’t cheap out on it, this is bougie bread. Not the hot dog rolls you can buy in bulk or the wonder white bread. Ree holds the loaf, as if unsure what to do with it…

Send “⚠️” plus a warning label for my muse || Accepting @ultimafleur

     The bravest. Those two words echo in the depths of the heroine’s mind, seizing her heart, prompting the faintest of prickling sensations to pool in the corner of slate blue eyes. He would not say such a thing without meaning it-- of that much, Serena is certain. AZ had been there against his will, of course-- saw the blonde at what was approaching her lowest point; knew how dire the situation had been. And so, with a few cautionary blinks, the corners of pale lips curl upwards.

     With that sort of compliment, Serena cannot dare to show weakness now.