matcha-royaltea

[QUEST: E-047 (RETURN-001), WORDS: 720] “It is better to light a single candle than curse the darkness.” Where were you when the Sun set for the last time over Treatropolis? Beyond the gates of the great Treatling city, shut for all eternity, the twilit streets glisten in an array of tantalizing hues. A pied stranger wanders down a pristine road of sheer, glossy sugar. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. With every step, the city crackles and shatters underfoot. Konpeito balls begin to gather beneath the soles of her hooves; every so often the stranger stops to stamp them out lest her journey be laced with candy-coated agony. What a tragedy, she mourns as she looks over the colorful shards. How the mighty have fallen. We will never have another Hundred Year War again. I know of the pain and suffering it wrought. It is a mercy and a kindness that none can relive them. But this… Is this peace? I do not know. The stranger moves on. A swathe of stardust is all that remains. Where is

“Zem luna, teim luna.” “Zem Luna, ve teim a.” The last passenger has disembarked. Though the ferryman waves farewell, they are already gone. As he glides down the river the only thing rising to greet him is his shimmering reflection. Skimming past perilous reefs, snatched from the gnashing jaws of death with just a touch - is he alone? He can count the Yevatem who hailed him down today on one hand. He does not blame them. Few teskavtlejem dare travel the selerved this way. On a craft so light, down a route so precarious, and with naught but a single guide? Who would go on such a ratetvoitlej voyage? Who, indeed? But there are always those who will need the ferryman. They must go on, they must. The hasty, the desperate, and the dubious who it is best not to question. And a smiling ferryman is better than going alone. For only the ferryman knows the way of the selerved, and there are plenty of ways an unsuspecting traveller might sink into the embrace of Ai Matia, as the

Hark! Gather round, deyevatem, gather round. Those are the melysteryevatem you hear. They are calling the children home to hear tales of cycles past. But there is one story that is told time and again even if you are not from the Heart. It is an old, old story; how old exactly, we do not know. Who was the first to speak of it? Not even the melysteryevatem can tell us. Although they have heard it since they were but deyevatem themselves, none know the face nor the name of that wondrous storyteller who weaved these words so long ago. Nevertheless, it makes for a good story. Come while away the hours, deyevatem, stay a little longer past your bedtime and listen to the tale of Botheamitsaal… Why Botheamitsaal? Why the heart of the Heart, the very soul of the Mother herself? None can deny her presence, for her laughter ripples throughout the caverns; all Yevatem can hear her heartbeat in their ears and feel her coursing through their blood. If you care to listen, her voice can be found

How precious is water to the desert-dweller! We never really think about such things until they are gone, you know; nobody in the astriaveltu’rem goes thirsty. Why would they? Not when Yevatem can quench that thirst from every lake, river and spring they please. Kesyajdesi luna mepeus anier ierim ujeltur’em. As long as you search where the light does not reach, you will find water. But teskavtlejem from above, with their callused hands and parched lips - they know how to appreciate the miracle of water. Lune is so scarce on the surface; the teren is too hot, too hot! And it is hottest in the no-water lands where the very sand threatens to scald your feet. To varsamakteskavtlejem a mere puddle is a gift from our Mother, two cupped palms’ worth cause to celebrate. If only we could learn to love the simple things as they do… A powdery-blue blur bounds across the landscape. It gives pause for a moment - just a moment. Staring up at a laughing waterfall, a Siune puppy giggles before

There is static in my throat Fizzling and crackling Rotting my fingertips And shattering my teeth While I lay dying You were lighting fireworks Burning me up from inside Because I wasn’t bright enough To go out in a blaze of glory Promise me I can finally sleep in peace Promise me It’s the last she’ll haunt my dreams It’s time to wake up, Irei. “No… nnnnnno… stop… please stop… Please… Stop…I SAID STOP!!!!” Irei barely registered the nightmare was over until the darkness faded and left him lying there, shaking like a leaf. “No. Nonononono. It’s just a dream. Just a bad dream.” He could barely move. His whole body had seized up, rigid with fear, chilled by the night yet sweat clinging to clammy skin. “Just… a dream. Just a dream. It’s not real. It’s not real. She’s not here. It’s not real.” He blinked and hot tears spilled. Already he could feel the marks drying on his cheeks. “It’s… not… real. Is it???” All this and he couldn’t even remember any more.

You know, teskavtlejem from the no-water lands have a curious saying. Koga Al Varrok tekrastaik varsamak, varsamakgaruem zemdesi theilej. When Al Varrok strikes the desert with his lightning bolts, the sands will turn to glass. It is a good saying, a wise saying. It reminds us that hope shines brighter than any tragedy ever could. Yoa will always bloom on the battlefield. Once, there was a town here. There still is. It has no name, but Yevatem who have lived here all their lives call it Lunaituhei: A home upon the wildest of waters. It used to be quite a sleepy town, content to ebb and flow with the tides - little more than a calm finger on the pulse of the astriavhesfiem, though the rivers were what gave Lunaituhei sorkabai. Merchants found their way here, one way or another, and soon a floating market sprang up on the banks of the town for tsarta. Yet some things never change. The Yevatem of Lunaituhei are strong and steady, slow but determined as the currents that always

Close your eyes and think of a fairy ring. What do you see? When I tell people to close their eyes and think of fairy rings, they never get the chance to utter a single word; before they themselves know it, their faces tell all. I do not need to know what a fairy ring is, of course, for I have seen and known far more than they ever will. But I so dearly love to see their emotions overcome them. No two are ever alike. It is truly a sight to behold. Before little children can run and get their Enid Blyton books, wonder clasps them by ruddy cheeks and chin, mouths falling open in awe. A voice of spun silk and gossamer whispers an invitation to a tea party. Those who know are nodding before they can stop themselves - somber with the knowledge of the Fair Folk’s warnings, yet unable to resist being enthralled. Bewitching, is it not? What do you think of when you think of fairy rings? Hurry, hurry, for spring is hastening round the corner and soon the fairy rings will erupt once more in

The canyon walls called down to Skara as she stared up at them in awe. She was still considered too young, and not allowed to climb the cliffs as others had done. They were up there now, harvesting kiem from nests perched on twigs and in niches of the rock. Skara did not mind this; she knew the veltayem would later, but everything in this world must eat. This was a law she learned early on in these deserts of Bothea, that lives are built upon the bones of others. Her father was nearly touching the sky with his long tail, scrabbling, matrah to reach a nearby root hanging from the sandy rock. Skara reached down to the head of her siune for support, clutching his fur tightly - not painfully - for comfort. Kanyo sat there, tongue lolled out with a happy grin. The siune pushed his head into Skara’s hand, panting softly. Skara was nervous for her father, yes, and Kanyo seemed to know this. But the older yevat had done this a million times. He would be alright. His hand grasped the root

A rumble rattled her body. Instinctively, Kore turned her head to check the clock mounted on the wall. Eleven thirty-five, it read. As it always reads. Time was still in the university. Yet despite that the natural 'body clock' still ticked, demanding sustenance and rest. Loathe as she did to turn away from her research, Kore knew no good came from denying herself the basic needs of a corporal form. It was fortunate then, that the university's cafeteria was always fully stocked with fresh, hot meals. Salads, sandwiches, pizza, chips, and even fresh fruit were always available for her consumption - despite the lack of staff or any other living creature for that matter. It was a mystery she had once tried to solve. She had pulled her own feathers out trying to figure out the riddle before coming to the conclusion that the meals were simply part of the Kingdom, as natural to it as the frozen hands of every clock. The halls were, as always, devoid of life. The perpetual drizzle pattering

Grey covered the sky like a decisive stroke of the painter's brush. The air shivered in anticipation. The clouds burst. It was time for a proper april shower. The rain beat down on the sidewalk, slowly darkening the light concrete with little circles of water. Thunder rumbled in the north, still distant for now. The sun became more and more muted behind a rolling bank of clouds, the thin light that makes it through shines weakly on the city. Rivulates of gathering rainwater run down the street to the grate set into the pavement, not yet enough run over the rim around it and so it pools in a swirling little eddy until it can make it over the lip and drip into the storm drain and onto the snout of an unsuspecting esk. Sabine had his neck scrunched in short and his tail connected in an unusual show of condensation (unintentionally ironic given the current weather patterns above) though his size was comparable to a medium sized dog. This was unusual because his non-elongated form was