09-27-2018, 02:38 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Margaery and Suiteheart's deaths still burn in the back of Imperia's mind. In fact, she thinks of them often as she tends to the roses. Is Margaery smiling down on Peri as she prunes and plucks and waters? The sound of muted pawsteps draws the she-wolf's attention from her flowers and to Moon as he approaches. "Lune," she greets warmly, a brilliant toothy smile unfolding upon her lovely visage at the sight of her most special...friend. "I hate roses." It falters--full-moon eyes widening in a brief moment of shock, the lines of her face tightening ever-so-slightly. Imperia recover's with grace, dragging her gaze away from him so he cannot see the hurt and refocusing on the wicker basket overflowing with brightly colored blooms.
"Here," she murmurs, voice delicate as a feather. A single pale, lavender-hued flower floats on its own into a mason jar before Imperia offers it to Moon. Telekinesis is so helpful when one is born without thumbs. "I grew them in the Sacred Garden. The Maker likes them." Something about her words is almost...transparent. As if they were a tiny spider web trembling in the wind, waiting for one strong gust to completely obliterate the fragile structure. For a moment, she becomes distracted by his closeness; tempted to lean into the wispy mane and bury her face into his side.
The arrival of Lazarus distracts her before any of Peri's more primal urges can come to fruition. As with Moon, a rose drifts lazily into an open mason jar before being secured within. It seems to emit a dull glow--a faint magical energy. Imperia offers it to the male with a smile. "I did," she repeats, offering an affirming nod to Lazarus' question.
Ah, another person who seems to hate the roses which Imperia labored day and night to cultivate. The she-wolf expected several individuals to call poppycock at the flowers possessing any ability to bring luck or divine blessings, but to hate the roses themselves? It hurt just a tad. Only a twinge, a tight clench of her heart. "Perhaps I should grow something else, then," murmurs the creature in the same soft voice. She wears a smile, as if only musing. But anyone who knows her well enough can spot her disappointment. She passes a jar containing and orange blossom to Feyre. The orange reminds Imperia of fire--of passion and energy.
Even Bast seems hesitant, though it is not much of a surprise. What is a surprise, however, is that he was even present at all. "You do not have to take one if you do not want it," she says kindly. At least he doesn't hate them. She doesn't mind a lack of interest--she does mind if someone dislikes the thing she poured all her love and energy into. But does she say it? No, of course not! Peri does not want to cause trouble. What if someone resents her for it?
Alexander and Danny's arrival do wonders for Imperia's quickly deteriorating mood. Their enthusiasm and interest bring a stunning smile to her lips as she gazes down at the youths. She gives them each a pink and a cream rose. Two each for the younglings. A bias she does not bother to disguise. "Thank you, mes petits," she coos, words laden with warmth and honey. "And the Maker smiles down upon you," the she-wolf says to Danny, dipping her head in a shallow nod of gratitude.
"Here," she murmurs, voice delicate as a feather. A single pale, lavender-hued flower floats on its own into a mason jar before Imperia offers it to Moon. Telekinesis is so helpful when one is born without thumbs. "I grew them in the Sacred Garden. The Maker likes them." Something about her words is almost...transparent. As if they were a tiny spider web trembling in the wind, waiting for one strong gust to completely obliterate the fragile structure. For a moment, she becomes distracted by his closeness; tempted to lean into the wispy mane and bury her face into his side.
The arrival of Lazarus distracts her before any of Peri's more primal urges can come to fruition. As with Moon, a rose drifts lazily into an open mason jar before being secured within. It seems to emit a dull glow--a faint magical energy. Imperia offers it to the male with a smile. "I did," she repeats, offering an affirming nod to Lazarus' question.
Ah, another person who seems to hate the roses which Imperia labored day and night to cultivate. The she-wolf expected several individuals to call poppycock at the flowers possessing any ability to bring luck or divine blessings, but to hate the roses themselves? It hurt just a tad. Only a twinge, a tight clench of her heart. "Perhaps I should grow something else, then," murmurs the creature in the same soft voice. She wears a smile, as if only musing. But anyone who knows her well enough can spot her disappointment. She passes a jar containing and orange blossom to Feyre. The orange reminds Imperia of fire--of passion and energy.
Even Bast seems hesitant, though it is not much of a surprise. What is a surprise, however, is that he was even present at all. "You do not have to take one if you do not want it," she says kindly. At least he doesn't hate them. She doesn't mind a lack of interest--she does mind if someone dislikes the thing she poured all her love and energy into. But does she say it? No, of course not! Peri does not want to cause trouble. What if someone resents her for it?
Alexander and Danny's arrival do wonders for Imperia's quickly deteriorating mood. Their enthusiasm and interest bring a stunning smile to her lips as she gazes down at the youths. She gives them each a pink and a cream rose. Two each for the younglings. A bias she does not bother to disguise. "Thank you, mes petits," she coos, words laden with warmth and honey. "And the Maker smiles down upon you," the she-wolf says to Danny, dipping her head in a shallow nod of gratitude.