[UNMODERATED - player memory] [CRITERIA: 12 replies minimum]
Suddenly, a field. The soft grass, dotted with white flowers and shimmering strands of magical confetti, stretches into the lavender and orange horizon of an Angeltread sundown. Cozy houses line the periphery, lights on, air full of chatter and laughter and streamers.
Nearby, a gaggle of half-grown youths are setting off charmed firecrackers. Someone yells something unintelligible but joyous, and a handful go off at once in a cacophony of screams and whistles. All the kids cheer.
One of them turns to a small, familiar-looking girl and says, "You do the next one."
She blushes, gazing upward, and in that instant is recognizable as Xenia de Bourgh: much younger than she is in current life by a handful of years, but her heart in her eyes as always. The expression around them, however, is bashful and uncertain.
"Don't you want to, Xen?" the kid asks, smirking. "You gotta use your words."
She nods in fumbling earnest, adjusts herself in preparation: a shyer know-it-all who already took her time to speak and now has to work even harder at it. It's just a second, but it feels like a thousand years, the circle of faces leering down.
"I. I." Meaningless little starts. Xenia swallows and breathes out through her nose. "I." Then, giving up a little, her right hand reaches up and gingerly taps at the skin of her throat. Now everything crystallizes into a frozen tableau: kids, lingering smoke, and the glint of a golden band on her ring finger.
MEMORY: It Works!
[CRITERIA: 12 replies minimum]
Suddenly, a field. The soft grass, dotted with white flowers and shimmering strands of magical confetti, stretches into the lavender and orange horizon of an Angeltread sundown. Cozy houses line the periphery, lights on, air full of chatter and laughter and streamers.
Nearby, a gaggle of half-grown youths are setting off charmed firecrackers. Someone yells something unintelligible but joyous, and a handful go off at once in a cacophony of screams and whistles. All the kids cheer.
One of them turns to a small, familiar-looking girl and says, "You do the next one."
She blushes, gazing upward, and in that instant is recognizable as Xenia de Bourgh: much younger than she is in current life by a handful of years, but her heart in her eyes as always. The expression around them, however, is bashful and uncertain.
"Don't you want to, Xen?" the kid asks, smirking. "You gotta use your words."
She nods in fumbling earnest, adjusts herself in preparation: a shyer know-it-all who already took her time to speak and now has to work even harder at it. It's just a second, but it feels like a thousand years, the circle of faces leering down.
"I. I." Meaningless little starts. Xenia swallows and breathes out through her nose. "I." Then, giving up a little, her right hand reaches up and gingerly taps at the skin of her throat. Now everything crystallizes into a frozen tableau: kids, lingering smoke, and the glint of a golden band on her ring finger.