A Blossom in Winter

[Katie]

Winter roared in Myrkentown, unforgiving in its cruel, bone-biting wind. Branches dreamed of fresh leaves of the new season, the new ticklish growth of buds that would later bloom in the darkest greens and the lightest of pale yellows. These were only dreams; the trees were nothing better than spindly, unwelcoming arms of twisted knuckles and long-drawn fingers. Wind whipped against dry bark and a threatened shiver haunted along trunks and branches.

In the distance was one of defiance. It hadn't been there before; no, in fact, it seemed as if the tree had blossomed and appeared overnight. It was a cherry blossom, a tree that arguably needed years upon years to grow into the blooming girth of pink beauty. There it stood, unlike the other maples and oaks that she would call her brothers. The small petals refused to fall, as if their shredding was quite unnatural and the cold temperatures were like egg shells to her soil. The tree barely moved, like a soft, sleepy breathing, under the winter it defied. Winter blew harder, frosting the edges of the petals and yet, they could not be so moved.

Winter lost.

From the base of the tree, etched like knots, were two round circles. The bark was a deep, almost chocolate brown, smooth to the touch, unlike her brothers. Her blossoms were soft pink, speckled with black and white. Pollen mixed with the frozen air, dancing like delightful fairies after a successful prank. The circular on the bark seemed like knots, but yet different; knots were more circle and children's fingers could wrap around them. These were little oval protrusions, that a palm would smother in its size.

There, the tree stood. Unnatural, forever in bloom. After a week of defying nature, all of the pink petals fell off in one swoop; all together, they piled to the ground, like a shrug and the branches sagged with the weight of the season upon their joints. From the base of the tree, the small ovals peeled back.

A set of soft yellow eyes opened.

[Vanidor]

He had been watching the stately refusal of this particular tree these last few days, the nature of it having caught his attention and making him stay and observe. For the first few days, the man had not been alone, though his companion and her winged cats had since departed to allow the man his reverie. It happens thusly of late, with the various ravages to the 'Wood and the surrounding landscape.

Anything that was unusual caught his attention these days. Anything out of the norm made him reflect upon the uncountable days that had swept by over the ages of his life. And observing this reminded him of some of the earlier, halcyon days. When there had been a spring to his step and others to enjoy the aeons with. The quiet observer waited and waited, and was sorely tempted by the promise of a loving caress and the warmth of his bed to return to the Enclave. But no... There was... Something.

Present then, when the petals shed their wealth upon the winter-cold earth. The slender-limbed man would rise from his place, shedding the collected snow and detritus from shoulders, in much the same manner that the tree had divested itself of that pinkish rain. A breath, misting in the frozen air, as a soft-step carried the Elflord away from his hastily created lean-to. One hand raised slightly, calloused fingertips stretched towards the tree, though he was still more than an arms length away.

His features, as fine as any marble bust and just as unlined, split into a slight smile, as braided locks of blond hair fell out of the wide cowl that protected the head. The smile spread some, causing blue eyes to light up with some humor. Another misting of breath, as the man speaks.

"Hello, Child of the 'Wood. The blessings of the season be upon you, Hello."

Vanidor Goldenhair would bow his head reverently.

[Katie]

As each hour passed, the creature formed within the tree earned new definition. The set of yellow eyes were curious and flickering things, darting from hear to there, with keen observation of the winter that surrounded her. Indeed, they were feminine eyes, with soft angles and youthful investigation. Winter fell around her and her rich, pink petals had refused their vigilance on her branches. Beneath the eyes formed a long, slender nose and around that, the curvature of high-cheek bones defied the dark wood underneath.

Long against the side of the trunk, elongated arms, thin and knobby not unlike branches, pulled against the prison of bark. Each movement of the creature caused the dry, brittle bark to crack and the shavings fell around the base of the tree, showing the smooth, chocolate skin of the being born from its nature. Fingers were over-extended with palms that were also tremendous.

Just as her jaw was starting to take shape, her eyes flickered to the man. Handsome, perhaps, but it wasn't a look of appreciation. Its definition was more of her curiosity; embarrassment and shame did not exist in her carved expression. Merely, the yellow eyes discerned Vanidor Goldenhair as if he was just as mysterious as she was. From the tree came a ripping, cracking and a tearing of her bark-arms from the womb of the trunk, the shavings of the tree trunk falling to the ground in rejected dismay. Fingers, long like knives, but soft in their tips, reached out for him slowly. They extended, attempting to reach out, but her elbows remained arrested against the bark.

When she spoke, it was an echoing sound, vibrating against the air in a whisper, haunted like ghosts, yet ethereal as if from a different spirit entirely. As fingers curled out for him, her mouth finally formed into a wide, thin-lipped smile.

"Help me."

[Vanidor]

The ElfLord would tilt his head slightly, lips puckering as he considers. Spirits of the Wood could be quite mischievous, but that sort of thing had never stopped the man before in all of his years. Vanidor made a short step forward, boots crunching at the scatter snow beneath his feet. Slender fingers extended in order to touch the ones that had been spread towards him, just enough to touch tips to tips.

Then, a smallish laugh. "How, then, shall I be of assistance, Child of the Wood? Would ye have me pull thee from the very root of thy existence?"

His words hung in the air as he said them, not just the moisture from breath misting, but the manner in which they were said. His is an ancient language long forgotten by men, even lost to many other elves. He had taught it sparingly over the years, though. To some of the Things that walked Myrken and the world yet. Was this one of them? The offspring of some tree-born entity, or one simply reborn as they were apt too?

"Do not struggle overmuch, thou wouldst not wish to bring injury unto thyself with thy restlessness, hmn?"

[Katie]

There was nothing soft about the creature. She was all of which she had been born: harsh, flaky, chocolate bark that shed like dismissed skin. Her fingers twisted and curled, like a quiet evil turned her knuckles into the knots so akin to the tree she was still attached. When the elflord touched her, her fingers curled, to encase the softer, gentler fingers and understand the complexity of flesh. Her head, now separated from the tree, down until the shoulder, pivoted. Her eyes, powdery soft and canary in color, watched him unrelenting.

If she was the trickster that her reputation would advise, she lacked the mischief. No, instead she was something that, from a distance, was starkly beautiful. Up close, however, her features were so sharp and angular, that the beauty faded at her edges into something a more shallow sort would find ugly. From her scalp, where hair should have grown, were small roots, staggered out in all an unshapely mess, twigged, decorated with tiny pinkish buds, surrounded by the wombs of green.

Her eyes never moved from the 'lord, though the furrowing of brows indicated her annoyance. Her common was loose enough; thick with foreign, indeterminate accents and odd clicking of her tongue against the back of her teeth. Cracklings ached from the tree, exposing a pale, fine wood behind her as she continue to birth herself from her arboreal womb. Her shoulders separated from the wood, and not unlike the birth of most humanoid children, she curled forward and fell from the tree and crumpled to the ground like the blossoms had discarded themselves moments before.

She lay there, supple breasts upon her unnaturally long, scrawny arms. Dark, peaked nipples brushed against her inner elbow and she looked up at the lord. Her more gentle areas were covered by the clenching of thick, hardened thighs. The buds in her twig hair began to slowly bloom into ticklish pink blossoms.

"Will you help me now, gentle thing?" she asked, her voice of a dozen whispers, "will you help me now to a place of warmth and of food before I die?"

[Vanidor]

The elf steps closer, booted feet crunching the loamy earth beneath him. As he draws nigh, fingers work to unclasp the leaf-shaped pin that holds his cloak about those slender shoulders of his. There is a flourish of material, and the thing is sweeping to descend down upon the fallen creature. Woman? Vanidor is unsure upon which label to place upon this one, though that will be an issue to contemplate further upon at another time.

The garment is like silk upon the side that drops down upon the female, with a collar that doubles as a hood depending upon how it lays across the shoulders and is bound. He will allow her the chance to do this herself, if she be able to do so. Even so, he will stand close to offer assistance, be it arm or hand or shoulder.

"There is a place, not far from here that I can see thee fully clothed and shod. Warmed and fed as well, if thou dost need such. The Enclave is not far, and it is safe. And after, if it is thy wish, I can take thee to the Broken Dagger. Beyond the trees and across the fields, it is not as safe, but far more livelier."