KISS FROM A ROSE || giving out roses

[imperia]

[align=center][div style="width: 550px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]When she dreams, it is Always Winter.

--Blistering cold wind whips across the frozen plains, whistling and howling in the darkness. It grabs and tears at the lonesome figure who alone dares to voyage across the nightmarish terrain. Pitch blackness shrouds the empty skies like a heavy blanket, blocking the light from the trillions of stars which usually gleam and shine upon the landscape. There is no moon. Imperia trudges through the icy landscape. She does not walk atop the ice with the uncanny grace common to most wolves, but forces her way through mounds threatening to rise taller than her head. No thoughts other than to primal command to walk fills her brain; barren as the landscape. This is no winter wonderland, but a winter nightmare.

Frozen water and gigantic snowflakes litter Imperia's once stunning pelt. Steam emanates from slightly parted jaws like some ancient frost dragon as the she-wolf pants heavily. The world around her fills Peri with a sense of dread. She feels...empty; void. The Maker is no longer by her side. Her goddess has left her, which only means terrible things are to come--

And then, she awakens. Nothing more than a vague sense of terrifying emptiness remains, and, strangely enough, her breath appears in tiny puffs of steam--but only for a moment and not long enough to register as something real. Imperia shivers in spite of the thick blankets enveloping her delicate frame, wearily pushing herself to her paws and staggering out into the fresh morning air. Imperia stands before the stone edifice of her cottage, pallid silver gaze locked on the bloody horizon. Not yet sunrise--a mere suggestion of daylight.

Comfort arrives in the form of an unusually warm breeze, brushing against her pelt like a gentle caress. Be still, a voice commands in the soothing voice of a mother. I am always with you. A wave of serenity passes over, washing away the residual fear from a dream she can no longer recall in detail. Imperia bows her head in gratitude. In acknowledgment of something greater and more powerful. "Grâce à la Créatrice," murmurs the argentine canine in a soft voice.

After a moment's pause, Peri quietly pads away. She circles around to the back of her cottage, the terrain changing from wild plains to manicured garden. This garden differs greatly from the herb garden she cares for by the Observatory. Roses dominate the space: an impressive hedge sporting blooms of various hues create a natural fence-line. They arch gracefully over the single entryway, permeating the air with their sweet aroma. In the center of the garden lies a shallow pool. Constructed into a perfect circle, the depth is only to Imperia's shin. The water is crystalline, revealing a tile mosaic of a galaxy. Blue, black, purple, silver. An array of colors slowly spiral from a background of darkness and bright pinpricks of white messily dot the mosaic, as random and numerous as the stars themselves. Floating atop the water much like a lotus is a single obsidian hued rose. Black petals sparkle and gleam as if imbued with the light of the galaxy itself, though the phenomenon can easily be dismissed as a trick of the light.

Although it cannot be described as weird, something is unusual about the rose garden. As Imperia hums quietly to herself, tending to the briers with a certain gentleness, an unusual heat seems to radiate throughout the space. Autumn quickly approaches, bringing with it chilled breezes and freezing nights. But it does not exist here in the garden. Something greater has touched this space; blessed it with a warmth which defies nature itself.

After several minutes of careful selection and preening, the gentle cleric emerges from the Holy Place with a wicker basket brimming with roses and empty mason jars. "Would anyone like some roses? They are very special," calls the lovely she-wolf. "They will bring you luck when you need it most." Imperia does not expect most people to believe her. The Maker will reach those who want to be reached, but many others will refuse to see the divinity imbued into the quivering petals. That is fine, of course. If anything, the roses provide an eternal decoration. One that never dies.

[ basically this is a holy garden she keeps in service to her goddess so these flowers are blessed by the Maker. your character can choose to believe that the rose will bring them good luck, and you're free to have the Maker save them from death/injury/sickness/etc. because of it. otherwise, it's just a pretty rose in a jar that never wilts ]

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]It's been well established by now that the night has a habit of taking Moon in its grasp and leaving him with purple washed bruises that only show by the time the sun rises. He turns into a cowering child, tangled up in his nightmares, afraid of the dark. And with Winter comes longer nights and shorter days, and he hates it. He's terrified of it.

So you could say he could do with spending some time in Imperia's garden. If only he knew about it. Unfortunately, when he spotted the wolf emerging from the obscure building she came from, he had know idea where she'd been. Where the hell she'd gotten her basket full of flowers from. But one thing he knew for sure was that she looked like something out of a fairytale. Ones with wolves who were prettier than the princesses.

"I hate roses." He says, glancing at her with a sunken golden gaze. His voice is scratchy, torn. It's the first time he's used it that day. There's an image of Marg's body, collapsed to the ground and surrounded by the same flowers Imperia carries spinning in his head, but he holds her gaze and, slowly, things get more bearable. "But I could use some luck." He settles on, voice hushed, before he sucks in a breath, sets his shoulders back and seems to rebuild himself. He clears his throat. "La Vie En Rose." Muses the lion, carrying himself closer to her side and leaning over to inspect the flowers. He can hear Louis Armstrong's voice in his head. "Where'd you get these from, Frenchie?"

[LAZARUS]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Lazarus could never remember his dreams clearly. During the hazy hours of the morning, he can at most recall some faces, some memories. It's enough to piece together an idea of what dream him copes with every time he falls to restless sleep. More often than not, they're worry-driven nightmares that he can easily deny come morning. He dreams about Gabe when his chest and throat are red, then of broken, torn wings. He dreams of teeth in the back of his neck again, or his own antlers snapping. Sometimes he hears their cajoling, their fake-friendly, uproarious laughter and the way they said Diablo both as an insult and as praise. He doesn't want to remember his dreams, so it's for the best that he doesn't. Oftentimes it leaves him wandering to chase off the last traces of bad memories, and that's how he ends up with these two. Of everyone in The Ascendants (aside from el anciano, of course), these two are the ones he finds himself most at ease with. Probably because they're both more interested in saving people than tearing them down, and maybe because he could use some saving too. Not that he'd ever admit to it, 'specially when he hardly knows them.

As always, Laz is a little awkward when he approaches. Heavy head low and eyes decidedly not on either one of them, strangely hesitant for someone of his size and attitude. Learning to be meek was unnatural, but definitely better than snapping at their throats. "Lo necesita," he scoffs in agreement to the lion's comment, and — and maybe he decides he could use one for himself, though he never really cared for pretty things. "Do you grow them?"

[Feyre]

☽  ☽  ☽

Feyre had only ever seen one garden in her life. It had been large and once tenderly cared for, roses and geraniums and lilies alike growing together under what the witch could only assume had been a watchful hand. She had stumbled across it by mere accident, the butterfly she had been so innocently chasing fluttering in the direction of the flowers. She remembered appreciating its beauty for only a moment before being hit with such an immense hatred for roses, bitter feelings of disgust rising within her chest and causing her to leave the garden before she could truly explore it. She hadn't been able to explain the misplaced emotions towards an otherwise rather mundane flower, that she bore no desire to step foot within the garden ever again- it could become gnarled and awful for all she cared.

But Imperia was giving out the gift of roses and Feyre, despite her unexplained hatred, could not simply turn tail and return to the shadows from which she had originated. No, the russet wolf was obligated to take her favor. [color=#ac5847]"I hate roses too," She extended as she stopped next to Moon, [color=#ac5847]"But I'll take one." Luck. She believed in it just as she did fate and mystery and greater powers. Perhaps she'd need some luck in the coming future, perhaps she wouldn't. Regardless, Fey wasn't so young that she was oblivious to the importance of manners.

[color=#ac4847]"Thanks!"

[BASTILLEPAW]

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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS

ASTRAL SERAPH ★ THE ASCENDANTS ★ TAGS

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Bastille has nothing personal against roses. Sure, they remind him distinctly of Margy, but those memories are not tinged with negativity; on the off day, he might see a rose and think of Rosie, of baby blue eyes just like his own staring down at him just the once before she was gone, but even that memory was dulled and faded with time. He could look back on that day and feel nothing, as if he was watching it happen to a stranger — could wonder, absently, where Rosie was these days and find that he didn't really care a whole lot. She wasn't his mother, not really. She did not carry her souls in the same manner as he did. She was... different. Foreign. Unfamiliar in her cruelty. If not for her eyes he wouldn't have thought anything of it.

Today it was not Peri's roses that brought back the flickering memory of his mother, however. He had stopped beside Moon, idly studying the peculiar roses and contemplating if he should take one to be nice, when he stopped short. The nickname fell from his mouth innocently, but Bast was staring at Moon blankly, briefly taken aback to hear it. Frenchie. His pale stare flickered to Peri and he cringed, slightly; it was all the worse that she did tend to remind him of his mother from time to time, with her light voice and delicacy and French, and the weirdness of that association was multiplied by... well, hearing her called by the same name. It was unnerving, and Bast shook off the vaguely disturbed feeling as he instead just muttered, "Uh, I guess I'll... take one."

He had absolutely on use for the thing, but he suddenly had the impression that if he rejected Peri's offering she would pin him with a look that reminded him far too much of Frenchie and that would just be... too much. Way too much. He was grossed out just thinking about it.

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BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE [color=#b4d5ee]FLAMES

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[tori]

Roses. Like most of the others, he couldn't help but associate the flowers with Margaery, but there was no crippling sadness to be found when he heard Imperia's call. He still missed her of course, he always would, but he was finally healing, he'd accepted it already. Besides, she didn't go too painfully, and Suite was with her, wherever that may be. He vaguely wondered if Margaery was living out her after life to the chorus of Suite's resounding amounts of 'fuck'.

But no, the offering of Imperia's roses didn't throw him off. He was more than willing to accept one of the jarred flowers, maybe two of they weren't all collected. And so Alex skipped over, seemingly in a better mood than he should have been given all the current events. Truth was, he was trying to keep his own spirits high, if he didn't, he crashed and burned. Like, he feel hard into a state of misery. So he wouldn't do that. "They're lovely, Imperia. We could all use some luck, right?"

♡♡♡

[DANNY]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth; width: 420px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"] The clutter of so many souls at one place is enough initiative to have the four month old arrive as well. A collect symphony of varying voice entering the air, never aggressive or cruel, but curious, if not a little reserved. Clear eyes slid over the others as he padded behind the latest to arrive: Bastille. A faint greeting came from the kitten’s mouth before bumping his head against the Astral Seraph’s leg before moving along to give everyone else the same warm greeting. Feet stopped before the compassionate she-wolf and took another step forward to bump his head against her foreleg as well before trotting off to the side and settling down.

Roses were pretty in their own right. An air of elegance yet deadliness at the same time. Gorgeous to look at with thorns accenting the look. All that mattered was the point of being pretty to look at and it was enough of Danny. Whiskers quivered as the dark child smiled and hummed, adding in to the voices that already cluttered the air. May the Gods smile upon you. "Ahh, me too! I’d love to have a special rose that brings luck." A slow nod. "The divines truly are smiling down upon you."

[imperia]

[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.