spring deserves a flower crown open Closed

───open to 1-2 players.

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sunday afternoon. 16th of april. weather is sunny with a slight breeze.

At home, each Spring left Maeve breathless; holding onto each wildflower with the same desperation she held for the ever so gentle months. The true return of Persephone, as March bled into April like the juice of pomegranates soaking her billowy dresses. A reminder to remain unprovoked and unrestrained; childlike and free.

And yet again did Spring extend its hands out to Maeve, only dragging her somewhere new entirely. Same breeze, yet a different calling. Same sweet scent, though different flowers.
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Adorned in a jade green blouse with a black ribbon fastened in her golden curls, the first year shone clear with Slytherin honor. Ironically if you'd told a dismayed little Maeve several months ago she'd wear the colors of a snake so willingly, she'd just about wither away in shame. And while at times she still seemed to question the hat's legitimacy, her path of acceptance had not diminished. To be a Slytherin was not a matter of being good and evil, that she found slowly but surely. It meant she held true ambition, a profound cleverness; and why should a thing such as a house suddenly negate such traits? Not a soul had said the path of bravery was exclusive to Gryffindors alone, therefore Maeve possessed the best of both worlds. 'I may be brave, but I'm certainly not daft.'

With another gust of wind passing swiftly through her hair, the same scent of nectar surrounded Maeve. A fragrance so familiar, she couldn't help but wander closer. Globeflowers and Foxglove curled beautifully from the soil beneath them, almost too delicate to rip from their Earthy home. Though with a delicate tug, the petals were ripped free and now set gently in the lap of the Slytherin.

'Mother always taught me how to braid them into chains.' she thought fondly, recalling her mother's soft hands weaving the stems into perfect circles. Maeve could never get it perfect, always breaking them in halves or accidentally scattering the petals. A young Miss Selwyn would constantly urge her mother to use a spell in place of their hands, offering how much easier it'd be. Why, she could have dozens of wonderful crowns with the use of that. Though that voice, the same voice that sang gently as they worked, reminded her beauty isn't exact. Broken flowers could be turned to bracelets, and discarded buds were suddenly velvety hair pieces.

And with that, she tucked a single yellow flower behind her ear and began to fiddle with the array of weeds that lie in front of her.
──"The first crown of spring."