❦ 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐀 ❦
[ appearance ]
Reducio
Like an ornate porcelain cup, each of her features is an adornment, carefully crafted, painted with gentle, thin brushstrokes, colored in a mix of watercolor hues. The canvas – her skin – is pale, somewhere between vanilla and white chocolate. It’s soft, with little moles, like dark stars in light night skies scattered across the surface of her whole body. She is average height, not standoffishly tall, and even though she’s not short, it is sometimes easy to miss her – she has so little presence and vicinity over her surroundings.
Her eyes, the shade of ocean blue, hidden under long, lush eyelashes, are often pointed down or wandering – wandering around the wonders of the world instead of staying in one place. Her nose is small and pointy, turned slightly upward. Below it, her lips are small and thin, often colored in a soft reddish tint that makes her seem even more like an antique porcelain doll, but also brings out her lips in a sophisticated, elegant way. Her cheeks are full and rosy, often described as unripe strawberries: still white, but along the very edges there’s a noticeable tint of pink.
Moving down, her pale, soft neck is often hidden under a lace ribbon or an ornate choker, because beneath it lies the dark truth of what’s hidden behind her facade. Her neck has withstood many crusades in her life; beneath soft fabrics and pearly jewelry, it is covered in scars – deep, impossible to miss when an eye lands on them.
Covered in silk and cotton, lace and ribbons, she walks like a silly toy-sized handbag pup, spoiled and effete, in hindsight oblivious to the real world. Her preferred fashion choices are elegant dresses, sewn to the silhouette of her figure to fall in a complimentary manner. Corsets, when fitted for her, bring a divine and delicate ambience to her attire. With her shoes, each time, she seeks for the equivalents of Cinderella’s slippers, so carefully crafted, so perfectly fitting, and terribly delicate, with the threat of breaking at any moment. Although, perhaps, that’s precisely what makes them so special. To top it all off with whipped cream and a cherry on top, she wraps her neck in a ribbon to hide the cracks in the otherwise perfect porcelain, puts on fitting earrings and a necklace, perhaps, when feeling rather capricious, also putting on a bracelet or ring, or even gloves if she is traveling somewhere that frightens her, for fear of getting very much dirty.
Observed from afar, like a painting is meant to be, she appears borderline perfect. Otherworldly grace cradles her whole appearance, from top to bottom; each movement is easy and delightful, like watching someone paint over a porcelain cup, so careful and precise, yet so beautiful to watch. But do not get too close, for when you do, it is much easier to notice all the mess-ups and imperfections that lie beneath the paint and pearls. A layered cake of sorts she is, incredibly sweet on the outside, but as you bite deeper, it becomes strangely bitter, and before you can even stop to think, you realize it is poison that you are eating.
Her eyes, the shade of ocean blue, hidden under long, lush eyelashes, are often pointed down or wandering – wandering around the wonders of the world instead of staying in one place. Her nose is small and pointy, turned slightly upward. Below it, her lips are small and thin, often colored in a soft reddish tint that makes her seem even more like an antique porcelain doll, but also brings out her lips in a sophisticated, elegant way. Her cheeks are full and rosy, often described as unripe strawberries: still white, but along the very edges there’s a noticeable tint of pink.
Moving down, her pale, soft neck is often hidden under a lace ribbon or an ornate choker, because beneath it lies the dark truth of what’s hidden behind her facade. Her neck has withstood many crusades in her life; beneath soft fabrics and pearly jewelry, it is covered in scars – deep, impossible to miss when an eye lands on them.
Covered in silk and cotton, lace and ribbons, she walks like a silly toy-sized handbag pup, spoiled and effete, in hindsight oblivious to the real world. Her preferred fashion choices are elegant dresses, sewn to the silhouette of her figure to fall in a complimentary manner. Corsets, when fitted for her, bring a divine and delicate ambience to her attire. With her shoes, each time, she seeks for the equivalents of Cinderella’s slippers, so carefully crafted, so perfectly fitting, and terribly delicate, with the threat of breaking at any moment. Although, perhaps, that’s precisely what makes them so special. To top it all off with whipped cream and a cherry on top, she wraps her neck in a ribbon to hide the cracks in the otherwise perfect porcelain, puts on fitting earrings and a necklace, perhaps, when feeling rather capricious, also putting on a bracelet or ring, or even gloves if she is traveling somewhere that frightens her, for fear of getting very much dirty.
Observed from afar, like a painting is meant to be, she appears borderline perfect. Otherworldly grace cradles her whole appearance, from top to bottom; each movement is easy and delightful, like watching someone paint over a porcelain cup, so careful and precise, yet so beautiful to watch. But do not get too close, for when you do, it is much easier to notice all the mess-ups and imperfections that lie beneath the paint and pearls. A layered cake of sorts she is, incredibly sweet on the outside, but as you bite deeper, it becomes strangely bitter, and before you can even stop to think, you realize it is poison that you are eating.
[ personality ]
Reducio
In the soft downcast light of a gentle morning, Vinnedikta is a true doll. She is soft-spoken; her words spill out like a ballad of the nymphs, slow and quiet, telling great stories from her imagination more than from the real world. In that melodic mise-en-scène, as she speaks honest and transparent, like a standing flask of clear, pure water, the colors of her persona emerge – layers of cake flavors hidden beneath the glaze that not many notice or manage to read, but that reveal depths in her one might not expect from such a naive, diminutive creature.
A deep, honest thulian pink washes onto the canvas and paints the background of the picture; it is idealism we see tinting the page. The little maiden’s beliefs and principles have always been lofty and visionary. Her childhood, laced with knowledge acquired from history books, has made her, although only partially, accustomed to the trivial knowledge of what a dark place the world has become through the actions of us as a race. This has caused the intuitive, deeply rooted kindness in her heart to shatter into a million pieces, yet not lose hope. Grand ideas, which might seem too unbelievable, too optimistic in the overall nature of our world, have always captured her interest and affection. She shows deep care and benevolence for causes that have been abandoned because of our bestial nature or simply forgotten, long tucked away in towers of parchment devoted to new causes meant to satisfy our worldly needs and wishes, to provide material goods rather than spiritual resolutions.
The pink vines travel through our portrait, but it begins to morph and mutilate right before one’s eyes into a color that is hard to distinguish. It seems almost one with the thulian pink, yet it differs, turning darker, dirtier. A particle of dust might have landed on the parchment and turned the true, vast pink into a muted slate gray. It paints impracticality. Visionary when mixed with a poison, easily transmutes into something somewhat negative. Not decorative, but utilitarian. Perhaps part of this futility can be explained by the way she was brought up – in a house of wealth and luxury, where everything she needed was done for her, every action she took was accounted for by others, with no consequences and no cloud to vaporize her conscience. Because of these circumstances, more often than not she can appear quite impractical. Whether it is her actions, which can hold up well enough within a castle of her size but crumble and break down in the real world like a doomed house of cards, or her beliefs, which, like her actions but quieter, seem to dissipate in the harsh reality outside. Her softness and the practicality she abandons for beauty and aesthetics often become the downfall, sending her ship of triumph down in misery.
As a translucent drop of water nears and hits the parchment, it brings light blue to the deep pink and gray mixing and dancing on the page, and a shade of purple appears. With astonishing speed, the detail becomes essential to the painting, traveling across the page in swift, elegant turns and spirals, illustrating something akin to harmony. An internal instinct that rises from deep within her lungs, in the air she needs to breathe, rushes through her veins with the blood she pulses and runs along her royal heart, making her seek it like a second home, for it brings her comfort in a storm. With each step and the clink of her heel against marble, she seeks harmony. She values it as an adventurer values treasure; it is an essential part of her calm existence, which she insists upon in all instances of life. Harmony ensures she knows what is going to happen, that her next step is clear. There are no errors or misjudgments, and she is content with the path she walks, even in the darkest forests, with the scariest creatures behind her. As long as there is light at the end of the tunnel, as long as there is harmony on earth.
In coexistence with the periwinkle, from the corners of the piece, the view is wrapped in an overlooming brown. In one lighting it seems almost essential, a detail without which the painting would not be complete. And it is true, it wouldn’t be, but the question is not there; the question lies in whether the detail is sanguine or not. Altruism, it appears, but it’s loud – too loud for the soft, muted colors all around it. Like a burning fire in a rose garden, it seems too red, too vibrant. At first glance, the youngling is far too altruistic. In contrast to her family, it seems the rot has not yet reached the ripening apple, and let us hope it never will. The kin only devoured and never abstained. In turn, in a quiet rebellion of sorts – the most blatant act that could be carried out by the meek young royal – she abstained; she gave. Perhaps in this world it can seem too kind; whispers along the way can murmur that one is naive, one fails to think about the future, or one, in the most pathetic manner, can believe they lack any future at all. But in the fairytale world that one inhabited, the mutters of those dissolved into dust that settled onto tree bark, lacking any autonomy, simply there, simply present. To her, kindness was more than naivety or weakness; it was standing up for the pure creatures that those in fury harm with their thoughtless actions. It was the protection of the weak and weaker, a solitude shared with those who were subordinates. In her world, she felt it – a looming horror over her shoulder that pushed her toward madness and corruption. She only prayed and hoped that kindness would remain in her heart and carry her through hardship and struggle.
Once again, a sliver of another shade appeared – a custom, at this point, of creation instead of devourment. It brought a warm yellow hue, a shade of constellations, newness, and hope. Perhaps it symbolized the never-ending open-mindedness that led our humble hero through a world which, above all, prioritized control and order. As previously observed, one might not have been so keen on change, preferring when things followed the tracks of how they should have, when phenomena were predictable. However, new ideas and wonders always fascinated her. The world she saw was so gloomy and dull that she pondered the idea of a new generation bringing light and hope, kindling a fire so desperately in need of dampening. She was not particularly innovative; that side of her was buried deep beneath layers and layers of the sculpted, perfect daughter of a political family. Yet she deeply appreciated those who were, and the people who had the courage to bring a much-needed change of decor to the present day.
As this visual image of an angel-like figure is observed, it may appear beautiful and awe-inspiring, or perhaps dull and boring to the average adventurer. But one thing it undeniably is: complex and intricate, difficult to understand. It is a painting worn on a sleeve by our angel, a painting of her very essence, her soul that she does not hide. A soul is not a simple thing, so it is not easy to scrutinize such an allegory, such a storyline of honesty and contradictions. It is a complicated portrait of a human being laid open, torn open and explored, every part unraveled. In fact, she desires to be understood, because so few people could understand someone like her; so few could see her and accept every part of who she is – a contradiction of colors and patterns in herself. A mediator between two mirror-opposite worlds, between the timeline of the past, the present, and the future, a mixture of birth, life, and death itself. A true representative of them all, and of none at all. An individual unlike any other, she is so genuinely honest that she reveals everything that might be in her psyche, because she does not have the chance to live if she reveals the full truth of her physical sufferings, and she is forbidden to do so. Her heart is the only thing she will not be scrutinized for giving, and the only thing that will hurt solely her if she loses it.
A deep, honest thulian pink washes onto the canvas and paints the background of the picture; it is idealism we see tinting the page. The little maiden’s beliefs and principles have always been lofty and visionary. Her childhood, laced with knowledge acquired from history books, has made her, although only partially, accustomed to the trivial knowledge of what a dark place the world has become through the actions of us as a race. This has caused the intuitive, deeply rooted kindness in her heart to shatter into a million pieces, yet not lose hope. Grand ideas, which might seem too unbelievable, too optimistic in the overall nature of our world, have always captured her interest and affection. She shows deep care and benevolence for causes that have been abandoned because of our bestial nature or simply forgotten, long tucked away in towers of parchment devoted to new causes meant to satisfy our worldly needs and wishes, to provide material goods rather than spiritual resolutions.
The pink vines travel through our portrait, but it begins to morph and mutilate right before one’s eyes into a color that is hard to distinguish. It seems almost one with the thulian pink, yet it differs, turning darker, dirtier. A particle of dust might have landed on the parchment and turned the true, vast pink into a muted slate gray. It paints impracticality. Visionary when mixed with a poison, easily transmutes into something somewhat negative. Not decorative, but utilitarian. Perhaps part of this futility can be explained by the way she was brought up – in a house of wealth and luxury, where everything she needed was done for her, every action she took was accounted for by others, with no consequences and no cloud to vaporize her conscience. Because of these circumstances, more often than not she can appear quite impractical. Whether it is her actions, which can hold up well enough within a castle of her size but crumble and break down in the real world like a doomed house of cards, or her beliefs, which, like her actions but quieter, seem to dissipate in the harsh reality outside. Her softness and the practicality she abandons for beauty and aesthetics often become the downfall, sending her ship of triumph down in misery.
As a translucent drop of water nears and hits the parchment, it brings light blue to the deep pink and gray mixing and dancing on the page, and a shade of purple appears. With astonishing speed, the detail becomes essential to the painting, traveling across the page in swift, elegant turns and spirals, illustrating something akin to harmony. An internal instinct that rises from deep within her lungs, in the air she needs to breathe, rushes through her veins with the blood she pulses and runs along her royal heart, making her seek it like a second home, for it brings her comfort in a storm. With each step and the clink of her heel against marble, she seeks harmony. She values it as an adventurer values treasure; it is an essential part of her calm existence, which she insists upon in all instances of life. Harmony ensures she knows what is going to happen, that her next step is clear. There are no errors or misjudgments, and she is content with the path she walks, even in the darkest forests, with the scariest creatures behind her. As long as there is light at the end of the tunnel, as long as there is harmony on earth.
In coexistence with the periwinkle, from the corners of the piece, the view is wrapped in an overlooming brown. In one lighting it seems almost essential, a detail without which the painting would not be complete. And it is true, it wouldn’t be, but the question is not there; the question lies in whether the detail is sanguine or not. Altruism, it appears, but it’s loud – too loud for the soft, muted colors all around it. Like a burning fire in a rose garden, it seems too red, too vibrant. At first glance, the youngling is far too altruistic. In contrast to her family, it seems the rot has not yet reached the ripening apple, and let us hope it never will. The kin only devoured and never abstained. In turn, in a quiet rebellion of sorts – the most blatant act that could be carried out by the meek young royal – she abstained; she gave. Perhaps in this world it can seem too kind; whispers along the way can murmur that one is naive, one fails to think about the future, or one, in the most pathetic manner, can believe they lack any future at all. But in the fairytale world that one inhabited, the mutters of those dissolved into dust that settled onto tree bark, lacking any autonomy, simply there, simply present. To her, kindness was more than naivety or weakness; it was standing up for the pure creatures that those in fury harm with their thoughtless actions. It was the protection of the weak and weaker, a solitude shared with those who were subordinates. In her world, she felt it – a looming horror over her shoulder that pushed her toward madness and corruption. She only prayed and hoped that kindness would remain in her heart and carry her through hardship and struggle.
Once again, a sliver of another shade appeared – a custom, at this point, of creation instead of devourment. It brought a warm yellow hue, a shade of constellations, newness, and hope. Perhaps it symbolized the never-ending open-mindedness that led our humble hero through a world which, above all, prioritized control and order. As previously observed, one might not have been so keen on change, preferring when things followed the tracks of how they should have, when phenomena were predictable. However, new ideas and wonders always fascinated her. The world she saw was so gloomy and dull that she pondered the idea of a new generation bringing light and hope, kindling a fire so desperately in need of dampening. She was not particularly innovative; that side of her was buried deep beneath layers and layers of the sculpted, perfect daughter of a political family. Yet she deeply appreciated those who were, and the people who had the courage to bring a much-needed change of decor to the present day.
As this visual image of an angel-like figure is observed, it may appear beautiful and awe-inspiring, or perhaps dull and boring to the average adventurer. But one thing it undeniably is: complex and intricate, difficult to understand. It is a painting worn on a sleeve by our angel, a painting of her very essence, her soul that she does not hide. A soul is not a simple thing, so it is not easy to scrutinize such an allegory, such a storyline of honesty and contradictions. It is a complicated portrait of a human being laid open, torn open and explored, every part unraveled. In fact, she desires to be understood, because so few people could understand someone like her; so few could see her and accept every part of who she is – a contradiction of colors and patterns in herself. A mediator between two mirror-opposite worlds, between the timeline of the past, the present, and the future, a mixture of birth, life, and death itself. A true representative of them all, and of none at all. An individual unlike any other, she is so genuinely honest that she reveals everything that might be in her psyche, because she does not have the chance to live if she reveals the full truth of her physical sufferings, and she is forbidden to do so. Her heart is the only thing she will not be scrutinized for giving, and the only thing that will hurt solely her if she loses it.
[ history ]
Reducio
Long ago, in a grand and bountiful town, there lived a happy couple. Their days were filled with smiles and giggles, and their nights with warmth and comfort. They lived in a loving castle, surrounded by trees and families who passed by and waved hello through the open windows on the first floor. The home was filled with music, the smell of freshly baked bread and hand-picked herbal tea, and sunbeams slipping past the day curtains, highlighting the shiny marble floors.
One day, the couple received the news they had been waiting for: they were expecting a child. They were overjoyed. And when nine months passed, a little angel came into their household, a little angel they called Vinnedikta. As soon as she saw the light, she was embraced in softness and care. She was wrapped in silk scarves when she came out of the womb; though other babies were dirty and raw the moment they entered the world, she was almost spotless. How could such a thing come about? Soft skin, loving in a way hardly imaginable, wrapped around her and held her tight. Oh, how much trust she had, not to be let go of, not to be dropped or abandoned, simply held forever, supported forever, and most of all loved. A miracle came to the Renasscentia family that early December day, and they had not forgotten it since.
The Renasscentia were a highly regarded family, a well-known name in the political world of England, and steady pillars of their community. On the outside, they appeared perfect, flawless even. The high towers of their castle, decorated with flags on gilded masts, shone brightly and promisingly, as if the people carried so much hope from as little as their presence. But, as history has told us many times, the brightest, most respected names carry the most blood on their hands and hide the most bodies in the cramped closets of their safe abodes, hidden from the outside world beyond the gate.
One day, the couple received the news they had been waiting for: they were expecting a child. They were overjoyed. And when nine months passed, a little angel came into their household, a little angel they called Vinnedikta. As soon as she saw the light, she was embraced in softness and care. She was wrapped in silk scarves when she came out of the womb; though other babies were dirty and raw the moment they entered the world, she was almost spotless. How could such a thing come about? Soft skin, loving in a way hardly imaginable, wrapped around her and held her tight. Oh, how much trust she had, not to be let go of, not to be dropped or abandoned, simply held forever, supported forever, and most of all loved. A miracle came to the Renasscentia family that early December day, and they had not forgotten it since.
The Renasscentia were a highly regarded family, a well-known name in the political world of England, and steady pillars of their community. On the outside, they appeared perfect, flawless even. The high towers of their castle, decorated with flags on gilded masts, shone brightly and promisingly, as if the people carried so much hope from as little as their presence. But, as history has told us many times, the brightest, most respected names carry the most blood on their hands and hide the most bodies in the cramped closets of their safe abodes, hidden from the outside world beyond the gate.
[ fiom ]
Reducio
Once upon a time, in the autumn of 2018, in an idyllic escape amidst stunning scenery in the Renasscentia family’s castle, a grand ball was being hosted. Families from all over the country gathered to celebrate the harvest, donate to the charities the ball supported, and socialize with fellow members of high society in this gape-awing preparation of a castle for guests. The impeccable early autumn air allowed for a beautiful celebration outside. A stage was built in the gardens of the residence, surrounded by trees just beginning to shed their leaves and flowers that were coming into their true autumn bloom. Everything was decorated in soft pastels, shiny gold accents, and floral ornaments. The guests gathered were dressed no less splendidly than the decorations. Women wore long daytime gowns, pearls around their necks, flowers in their hair or hats, and tiny satchels in which only a couple of flower seeds seemed to fit. Men were dressed in tailored suits, flowers tucked into their flap pockets, their polished shoes reflecting the sunlight in all directions and nearly blinding the ladies who came over to chatter. Children ran around, giggled, and squealed – the true squeals of happiness a child can have when present in an enormous garden in which they could run forever, eat deluxe fare, and take part in many more delightful things.
Unlike the others, Vinnedikta stayed by her mother, holding her hand and hiding behind the long folds of her cascading skirt, her big blue eyes staring up curiously at all the adults her mother greeted and shared a melodic laugh with. It was the first ball the little one attended; at the previous ones she had been sent to stay with her grandmother to preserve the shy tenderness she still possessed. And now, despite her mother’s attempts to get her to make friends with the other children, she clung determinedly to what she knew and, shyly, with an almost disdainful look in her eyes, stared at the other children as they ran around, rolled on the ground, and pushed each other. She was far too soft for those kinds of merriment.
Later, when all the arriving guests had gathered in the gardens and had had the opportunity to share a few soft-soap conversations, the time came for the little angel’s most eagerly awaited part of the afternoon. A classical wind orchestra assembled on the decorated stage of the ball to perform a symphony dedicated to the charities present that day. The host family – the Renasscentias – were seated at the very front to witness the beauty unfolding onstage firsthand. The little one sat on her mother’s lap, wrapped in the woman’s soft scarves and folds of fabric. She rested in comfort, watching as the wind orchestra began to play in the full light.
How beautiful the melody was! How it captured everyone’s gaze, fixing it on the performers and their passionate yet elegant movements, physicality, and graceful performance gestures. Their bodies seemed to move in time with the melody; it was a dance of their own. It hypnotized the guests – their eyes, their minds, their bodies. And the music… no less powerful and captivating was it to the soul and heart that heard it and imagined it had come straight from heaven, from the place where they had been born. It caught all souls and carried them along on a journey to pure bliss, so familiar and longed for.
Dear Vinnedikta was affected no less. The performance was so beautiful she could have sat there forever, enjoying the music that seemed to lead her through the course of an entire lifetime with its tonality and dynamics. It stirred so many emotions inside the little girl – self-transcendence, vastness, admiration… It was like nothing else she had experienced at her young age, and like nothing she would encounter in the near future. She was so engrossed in the trance the music had sent her into that she did not even notice as gentle rose petals started descending from the sky, seemingly out of nowhere. A wave of awed gasps swept through the guests, who looked up and saw the roses floating down. The angel was nudged softly by her mother and followed her graceful finger pointing up at the sky, from where all the beautiful magic was flowing. The girl gasped and giggled, catching a couple of petals in her hand. The faint idea that this could have been her doing did not even cross her mind, and why would it? In such an enchanting moment one could only be grateful to be alive, and she was.
After the party ended, her mother and father recalled several guests approaching them, gratitude in their expressions, to tell them what an intricate and vulnerable way it was to welcome the cold of autumn, with rose petals falling from the sky. With puzzled smiles and murmured condolences, the parents nodded and expressed their gratitude, with no idea who could have arranged such a quintessential gesture for the ball.
Unlike the others, Vinnedikta stayed by her mother, holding her hand and hiding behind the long folds of her cascading skirt, her big blue eyes staring up curiously at all the adults her mother greeted and shared a melodic laugh with. It was the first ball the little one attended; at the previous ones she had been sent to stay with her grandmother to preserve the shy tenderness she still possessed. And now, despite her mother’s attempts to get her to make friends with the other children, she clung determinedly to what she knew and, shyly, with an almost disdainful look in her eyes, stared at the other children as they ran around, rolled on the ground, and pushed each other. She was far too soft for those kinds of merriment.
Later, when all the arriving guests had gathered in the gardens and had had the opportunity to share a few soft-soap conversations, the time came for the little angel’s most eagerly awaited part of the afternoon. A classical wind orchestra assembled on the decorated stage of the ball to perform a symphony dedicated to the charities present that day. The host family – the Renasscentias – were seated at the very front to witness the beauty unfolding onstage firsthand. The little one sat on her mother’s lap, wrapped in the woman’s soft scarves and folds of fabric. She rested in comfort, watching as the wind orchestra began to play in the full light.
How beautiful the melody was! How it captured everyone’s gaze, fixing it on the performers and their passionate yet elegant movements, physicality, and graceful performance gestures. Their bodies seemed to move in time with the melody; it was a dance of their own. It hypnotized the guests – their eyes, their minds, their bodies. And the music… no less powerful and captivating was it to the soul and heart that heard it and imagined it had come straight from heaven, from the place where they had been born. It caught all souls and carried them along on a journey to pure bliss, so familiar and longed for.
Dear Vinnedikta was affected no less. The performance was so beautiful she could have sat there forever, enjoying the music that seemed to lead her through the course of an entire lifetime with its tonality and dynamics. It stirred so many emotions inside the little girl – self-transcendence, vastness, admiration… It was like nothing else she had experienced at her young age, and like nothing she would encounter in the near future. She was so engrossed in the trance the music had sent her into that she did not even notice as gentle rose petals started descending from the sky, seemingly out of nowhere. A wave of awed gasps swept through the guests, who looked up and saw the roses floating down. The angel was nudged softly by her mother and followed her graceful finger pointing up at the sky, from where all the beautiful magic was flowing. The girl gasped and giggled, catching a couple of petals in her hand. The faint idea that this could have been her doing did not even cross her mind, and why would it? In such an enchanting moment one could only be grateful to be alive, and she was.
After the party ended, her mother and father recalled several guests approaching them, gratitude in their expressions, to tell them what an intricate and vulnerable way it was to welcome the cold of autumn, with rose petals falling from the sky. With puzzled smiles and murmured condolences, the parents nodded and expressed their gratitude, with no idea who could have arranged such a quintessential gesture for the ball.
Last edited by Vinnedikta Renasscentia on 2 Jul 2026, 15:32, edited 3 times in total.
──────────────────────────── ꫂ᭪݁
eternally yours in sentiment and sincerity, vinnedikta
❦ 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐀 ❦
[ sta ] 6 [ eva ] 4 [ str ] 0 [ wis ] 7 [ arc ] 6 [ acc ] 7
❦
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