Light fell upon her sun-petaled lips and yet she was thirstier than ever; thirsty as the duskywing for its death and sapped of vigor. This is why she sighed, whispery pale, when shadow descended, the darkness stealing all light as a thief pockets a gilded round of coin. Stamped by darkness, sun-petals waned to the waxy blue of rain clouds; bruised and ripe and parting to admit the soundless hungers of a thousand flowers.

Vespertine, they called her. Miraculous and wonderful how blossomed she, in the night. When the moon eclipsed the world and nocturne murmured of decay's beast prowling the whip-tailed locust trees, she caressed velvet blackness with her sisters, a choir in marrow-white beauty strung over the mountains round ribands of choking, green spite. Precious and sullied, she, Her vetli du umpil.

Overjoyed, broken, her heart fluttered forth on emerald and crimson wings, Cold and Consanguine.


Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 8th of Niuran, in the year 497 MA.