He remembers the little girl’s small hands running through his fur, her salty tears, and the feather-light kiss and tight hug she gave him as she buried her face in his fur and said, “goodbye, Noire. I love you - be a good boy, okay? Mommy says if I’m good, we’ll meet again in heaven.”

Noire didn’t understand, then. He whined and licked her face, and let the little girl’s mother lead him away. He sat when told, patiently awaiting a treat, but all he got was hands pushing him into a hole and dirt, dirt in his eyes, dirt covering his nose, dirt and more dirt and —

When Noire woke, he heard the bells ringing. He struggled to stand in the heavy darkness and as he rose to his feet, he found himself standing above his grave, and then he understood.

“-unfortunate, but it was the dog or a person.” He heard a man speaking and walked towards the sound, rounding the corner of the church.

“No, I understand,” the woman said, the mother of the little girl, “Lily is heartbroken, of course, but she’ll be okay.”

Noire watched over the church from then on, bound to it. He struggled with intense loneliness, sometimes with bouts of rage and resentment, and sometimes lashed out by ringing the church bell incessantly. But when he saw the little girl - he saw her grow every Sunday - he calmed. Noire watched Lily get married, he watched her pray, confess, and seek sanctuary in the church. He watched her have children, bury her parents, have grandchildren, then he saw her one last time.

As her family lowered Lily’s coffin into the ground, Noire approached it, his smoky body forming a solid form for the first time as her beloved black dog. He ignored the gasps as he touched his nose to the gravestone, and the grieving family swore that they saw a little girl walk into the fading rays of the sun with the strange black dog.

From then on, the church bells rang mysteriously once a year. Sometimes you can still see the shadow of a black dog there, too - and the local legends say that he protects the church from the devil.

Adanko, the hare.

My Mini Aussie Flower

Based off my little fuzzball of a boy c:

Lol, wondering about the airplane in the sky? He loves to chase them!

Beneath the pale moonlight, the cherry blossoms glow a ghostly white. Amatsuki knows the colour well; among the many scattered memories he’s regained, there’s never been a life where he failed to visit this tree. Whether by night or in the light of day, in every lifetime, he always finds his way here at least once.

Sen waits quietly behind him as he lays a hand on the trunk, the rough texture of the gnarled bark beneath his fingers a familiar sensation that brings a hint of bitterness with it. Amatsuki is slowly getting used to the misplaced feelings that well up in him from time to time, all the relics of his past blending into his present. Since reclaiming his name, he’s been able to recall far more of his first lifetime’s memories than any other, and the emotions along with them.

He remembers the last time he visited the tree in that life; he hadn’t been alone then, either. Withdrawing his hand, he reaches up, lightly touching the cherry blossom in his hair instead. It’s almost as old as the tree itself, but because of Sen, it still looks as fresh and beautiful as if it had fallen yesterday.

Feeling the wind pick up around him, Amatsuki steps back, turning to face Sen again. The fallen petals rush past them, and Amatsuki smiles faintly as his eyes land on the splash of colour. He sees the question in Sen’s eyes when he draws closer without a word, simply sinking his hand into Sen’s hair.

Though the flowers lose their colour under the pale moonlight, against the sheer white of Sen’s hair, he can see the contrast. Carefully pulling back, he reaches out to take Sen’s hand, unfolding his fingers and delicately placing the pale pink blossom in his palm.

“It was in your hair,” he says, and he sees the way Sen’s eyes brighten at his words, darting to the blossom that Amatsuki has worn in his hair since the day he reclaimed his name. “What do you think? Should I put it back?”

Sen’s answering smile is sweet to behold. Amatsuki tilts his head up slightly when Sen leans in, taking the kiss that he hadn’t all those lifetimes ago. “I think it looks better on you,” Sen replied lightly. Amatsuki leans into the touch when Sen’s fingers comb through his hair, tucking the flower behind his ear.

He remembers that was the last thing he did for Sen before he said his final goodbye in that lifetime. He doesn’t know how—why—Sen held on to that flower for so many years, but he’s glad. The cherry tree hasn’t always held happy memories for him, but he thinks that now, his new memories will take away some of that bitterness.

Reaching out, Amatsuki tangles his fingers with Sen, pressing in a little closer. “Let’s go,” he says softly. Behind him, he can hear the rustle of leaves and flowers when the wind whistles through the branches, and the petals flurry past them in a blur of pale colour.

He doesn’t look back when they walk away. He has Sen now, and it’s time to move on.

In the depths of the jungle she laughs and she plays,
A carefree feline, all of her days.
She loves to dance and she loves to move,
and once she get’s going, she’s in the groove.

This cool cat is fierce that’s one thing for sure,
And it’s hard to miss her exotic allure.
It is difficult to find this popular creature,
she is by no means a headlining feature.

But if you want to find her hangout,
it’ll do no good just standing about.
Take a walk into the jungle and open an ear,
listen for music, that’s what you’ll hear.

Follow the sound of the rhythm and the beat,
If you do so you are surly in for a treat.
For in the center of the jungle where the music is loud,
that’s where you’ll run into the crowd.

And there she is, right in the middle,
dancing along to the notes of a fiddle.
She turns to face you, here eyes bright.
Upon making eye contact, she springs into delight.

With a flick of her tail and a wave of her paw,
she beckons for you, much to your awe.
Come, she seems to say, come and dance.
And with that you finally have your chance.

You and the animals dance through the night,
As you do so your heart is alight.
But as the sun comes bursting through.
All of the animals disperse too.

On a planet far away from our own there lies a system of stars. In the very center there is a planet with brilliant purple soil and deep blue water. Here, the stars shine brightly, shimmering over the deep dark landscape. There are a couple of alien races here on this planet. One of them are the Unipeople. The Unipeople have fur and six appendages. Two sets of legs and a set of arms. Their back legs are cloven hooves and their front legs are paws with long claws. Their hands are like primates and their head like a sea serpent or dragon. These strange gentle creatures have long dragon-like tails with a long tuft at the end that matches the mane that goes down their back.

The Unipeople are known for their psychic energies. They communicate telepathically and can insert their thoughts into other intelligent organisms as well (though they cannot actively read minds, they can only broadcast their own thoughts and receive broadcasts from others). It is thought that these powers are linked to the special “star gems” that they harvest from their planet. Each one wears trinkets made from these star gems. If their star gem is taken away, they seem to have residual psychic power, but it does fade over time.

One Uniperson in particular is Shinoa. Shinoa is the matriarch’s daughter and set to be the next matriarch. She is shy and sweet and still has a lot to learn, but she is good and caring. Her fur is deep purple with flecks of white. Her mane is black with shimmering purple. Her eyes are a pale pink in color and she has a single horn coming out of her head, a sign that she is of the royal line.

By Kali!
From this post

Kennin was a prince, well respected and beloved by many. He was living in a happy posh life as the prince. Parties and galas with the nobles; parades and feasts for the common folk. Things were good, the people were not starving, the crop was good and the livestock thriving. At the end of the winter, the royal family coordinated a feasting celebration throughout the kingdom to mark the end of the hard season and to hope for a bountiful growing season. It was during this feast that his life would change forever.

The invaders arrived on their ships catching the peaceful kingdom off guard. The took everything raided and pillaged as they pleased. And then they went straight to the castle. Kennin was smuggled away to protect the royal line. His father and mother were less lucky. Kennin and a handful of guards escaped on a small ship. Now he roams the land, a prince without a kingdom. With his small band of soldiers he sails around searching for his new meaning in life, unsure if he will ever return to reclaim his throne.

Always watching, the walls have eyes.
Staring, listless, surrounded by spies—
He runs, but there’s nowhere and no way to hide.

So many faces they’re all just a blur.
He searches for a friend—searches for her
He’s seen so much but not one glimpse of her fur.

He’s tired, so tired, he feels so weak
He’s ready to give up his ghost, so to speak
He calls to the watchers; it’s him that they seek:

“I know that you’re there, I can feel your gaze.”
His words all but swallowed up in the haze
Of his blood in his ears and his heart in his throat

Louder now, madder, he shouts to the air
“Come on now! I’m giving up, I don’t care!
Do your worst!” he yells as he circles the square

At last they’re upon him, like vultures like crows
Burning eyes, flashing teeth, a whirlwind grows
And he lies there, succumbing, and ready to die

And just as he feels his eyes start to fall,
He hears the voice he holds in his heart start to call!
All eyes turn towards her, and his at the last—

He realizes then his fatal mistake—
The last one he ever had thought he would make!
It was never /him/ the watchers were seeking, at all.

based off This flower. ugh that took longer than necessary to link.

The monk tends, as he does every morning, to his garden. His temple lies beneath the waves, where the tide does not pull so strongly. Light filters down from a sky he has not seen in a lifetime and falls soft upon him as he works. It limns each dark green stalk and leaf and eases the ache that’s settled in his bones.

The monk’s hands are gentle as he prunes back the fruit trees and pulls sea slugs free. The summer squash is flowering, and the pea shoots have climbed another inch, their curling ends weaving with the ocean’s ebb and flow. He thinks the corn will be sweet this year, if the otters do not pluck them first. There is a kelp forest east of the temple, and its inhabitants have developed a taste for vegetables. The monk shares his garden’s bounty, and they bring him gifts—shining abalone shells, bright anemones, and bouquets of coral and rock. These sit at the heart of the temple, offerings for the gods that guide the tides and dream within the deeps.

A shadow passes overhead. The monk pauses in his quiet labor to watch a whale swim by. Her calf is at her side, and he closes his eyes as they sing to one another, feeling their long, low call echo along his spine. They talk of warm waters to the south and of the freedom of vast seas, and after they have gone their way, the monk still tastes their joy on his lips.

The monk smiles as he settles back to his work. Perhaps he will leave some tomatoes on the temple roof tonight. There are always travelers passing through, and they could no doubt use some food for the journey. Still smiling, the monk bends down to the cucumbers and carefully pulls a yellowing leaf loose.

The moonlight gleams softly off the dull silver of iron. Silhouetted against a backdrop of improbably large brambles, all covered in wicked, gleaming thorns, a gleaming pearl castle’s towers reach to the sky.
The knight pauses, perfectly framed and positioned at the top of a idyllic hill before the ever higher staggered brambles. “Lo, there lies the rumored castle!” he softly explains for the benefit of a storybook audience.
The next page depicts the first of the grand trials—with macabre remnants scattered semi-tastefully and fairly indistinctly into the background. Great swaths of brambles sprawl in all directions. In the center a clear path of ground is littered with human bones, bleached white with time, and armor, rusted beyond all use. We see the back of the knight as he stares upon the scene.
A page flip later we are treated to great loops of black flames descending from the sky, blotting out the night sky—or perhaps just blending into it. The knight is silhouetted in motion, moving towards the edge of the page, here the action begins!
Quick, flip the page—

Post

Give me liberty or give me death—or perhaps the two are one and the same.

She had never had a name of her own, one that wasn’t shared with earlier generations, so she simply thought of herself as Luck. It was the refrain she heard, and the one that was at least somewhat personal. Lucky to have been been born at all. Lucky to have been born to a family of enough means to not toil for all her days. Lucky enough not to have to marry the first man who asked. Lucky enough to be fair enough of face to have suitors to choose from—but choose she must and soon.

Then, death came.

Oh, it wasn’t quite noticeable at first—a cough, a rash, a servant missing.

The her eldest brother fell ill. The chaos in the household, the whispers, she remembers them oh so clearly.

Equally clearly she remembers the shadow with no caster.

At first she thought nothing of it—perhaps she had just missed a detail after all; it was a trick of the light.

Death seemed to follow the shadow however. Death. Death. And more death.

When the shadow came for her she gave her name as “Luck”—and lucky she proved again.

She is the niece of a king and thus a prize to be won. She knows this, is reared for this from her earliest memories. She is trained to smile with just the right degree of modesty and a touch of gentle encouragement. She learns, she is taught, and she observes. She is ten when her uncle summons her to court. It is her beauty—or lack thereof—that saves her from the fates of her gorgeous cousins.
She is given a minor role in court, so young, so weak, so naive. Yet. Yet she knows this game, this game that has been the web that domes her world. She plays, for who could suspect it of her?
She plays and plots and in years she is given a better match than she could have otherwise hope to have ever aspired to. She plays. (Anamora does not speak to her, does not look at her, and does not ever ever come to court. Asabella does not speak to her either, but does not seem to hate her.)

She rides and she plays. She looks and she plays.

One day, she finds a prize that she would like to win.

There is a girl here, walking in the slums of the city unattended, dressed as a man or perhaps a new variety of whore, who talks like a foreign noble’s daughter and walks like no other woman he has ever seen.
The hair she sports is an improbable color and yet he cannot imagine a wig of such perfection ever made.
Her every aspect blazons warnings any sane man would heed.
Yet his is not the only eye upon her.

Mystery, that great handmaiden of woman indeed.

The cloth merchant eyes her clothes; the women watch from concealed alcoves in various states of emotion; young men jostle their friends to speak to her. Yet she browses, seemingly oblivious to the silence so profound in a bustling marketplace.

Tylakan must have danced today for she is neither oblivious to the ramifications of her presence nor the reactions she causes.
Yet she hides no weapon.

He feels shivers race down his spine—that instant recognition of instinct that has yet to serve him wrong: fear—fight her and you will lose. (You will die.)

She wanted to press it. Her finger inched ever closer before she pulled away at the last possible moment with a giggle. It was a game of hers, coming so close, but never quite going all the way. The big green button was mystery as to what function it preformed, and for this reason, all the inhabitants were forbidden to press it.
It was this very rule that made her game all the more alluring to play.
She did wonder, as many other also did, what would happen if she pressed it. The theories that she had heard over the years ranged wildly. Her best friend thought that it existed only to torment them all, and that if someone pressed it that nothing would actually happen. Someone else she had talked with thought that it would vent all the atmosphere in the ship if pressed. She had scoffed at that theory, who would go though the trouble of building a generation ship only for it to have a button that would kill everyone on board if pressed?
Whatever it did, she would not find out tonight and it was about time for her to head back anyways. Her mother would worry if she was gone for much longer.
She took on last glance at the empty bridge before she slipped out with a quite swish of her blue robes.

In the darkness, Landen could barely make out the shoreline by his feet. He could hear the waves lapping at the beach, and occasionally one made it far enough to wet his toes; but the sea and horizon were lost to the night’s shadows.

If he wasn’t wrong, it was supposed to be a new moon tonight. Tilting his head back, Landen stared up at the darkness that met him. Although he was so far away from the city he couldn’t even see its light in the distance, he still couldn’t make out the stars behind the clouded sky. Sighing, he dropped his head again, staring out blankly at the dark sea.

This was only the last in a long list of failed attempts, really. Guns, knives, nooses, pills—he couldn’t pick any of it up, but the ones he imagined into existence didn’t have the ability to end him. Nothing in the physical world could actually hit him, though he’d stood in the middle of traffic for a while. He’d tried jumping, and that hadn’t worked either; it had hurt, but it hadn’t changed anything. Freezing, immolation, electrocution… the list went on and on, and everything had failed.

He’d somehow thought that the water might be different. He didn’t actually need to breathe (he’d figured out that much), but surely if he convinced himself he was drowning, he would actually drown.

But it hadn’t worked. His last hope, and it hadn’t worked. If drowning couldn’t kill him, nothing could.

His hair was still dripping with seawater, but even if he’d had the light to see by, he knew that the water droplets wouldn’t even soak into the sand. Laughing harshly, he bowed his head, staring down at the sand.

He was never going to die, was he?

Landen wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, feeling the tide against his feet until it started to recede. He was faintly aware of light out of the corner of his eye, but it wasn’t until the cry of a seagull startled him that he finally looked up. There was a hint of sunlight at the edge of the horizon, not quite enough to illuminate the sea; but when he looked up, the clouds had cleared, the stars still gleaming in the dawn sky.

Though he knew little about stargazing, there was one constellation he’d learned by heart. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Landen searched the sky for it, gaze finally landing on the bright stars. Orion. Its stars seemed to outshine the others around it, even as the dawn light started to overtake its glow. Landen stared silently at it before breathing out a soft sigh, eyes falling to the horizon again. It had been years since he’d seen Orion—the only person left in the world who could still see him—but somehow, he was still here.

Landen was never going to die, at least not on his own terms. Deep down, he’d always known that the only way he would fade from existence would be if Orion’s belief in him waned. It was why he’d refused to meet him again, even when his loneliness was at its worst. But somehow… somehow, through all these years, that belief had lived on anyway.

It was absurd, really. It made him want to scream (had actually made him scream before, after he’d tried jumping from the building but only ended up perfectly alive on the pavement). All he wanted was to disappear, and yet because of Orion, here he was clinging to a half-life. If there was anyone in this world he should hate, it should be Orion.

But Landen couldn’t bring himself to. He still remembered when the realisation that had struck him—how it had been both warming and humbling to know that Orion somehow believed in him deeply enough to keep him in the world.

He may have left the town years ago, but not a day had gone by where he didn’t think of Orion. At first, he’d left to avoid Lance, but later, he hadn’t returned because he was avoiding Orion.

But maybe… just maybe, it was time to go back.

Landen slowly pulled himself to his feet, the sea breeze ruffling his now-dry hair. Dawn was starting to break, streaks of light dyeing the ocean in brilliant colours. Against the sky, the silhouettes of a flock of seagulls blotted out Orion’s remaining stars, but it didn’t matter anymore. Landen was going to see Orion properly now for the first time in years. Not just a glance from afar, but a proper meeting… as soon as he managed to drum up the courage for that, anyway.

But if he was never going to die, he would have all the time in the world to do that.

Taking a deep breath, Landen took his first step on the path home, leaving the echo of the waves behind him.