The forest was entirely the wrong frequency. It was too loud with aggressive bird calls, it smelled unpleasantly of damp earth and rot, and everything was distressingly… pointy.
Molly had fled the city hours ago, running from another whispered comment at the grocery store, another knowing look that made her feel dirty. She had driven until the road turned to gravel, then walked until her expensive Italian flats gave out. Now, she was hopelessly lost, a smudge of misplaced pastel pink against the overwhelming greens and browns of the wilderness.
She had collapsed at the base of a massive oak tree, her rose-colored silk wrap dress snagged irreparably on a bramble bush. She wasn't just crying; she was performing a tragedy for an audience of squirrels.
"Hooo-hoo-hooo..."
The wail was melodic, rhythmic, and utterly despairing. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, burying her face in her hands, rocking back and forth among the roots. Mud stained the hem of her dress, and a twig was tangled in her meticulously styled "honesty hair."
"It’s not fair," she sobbed into her palms, her voice a trembling flute sound. "I’m supposed to be in the Castle. I’m supposed to be soft. This moss is not soft. It’s scratchy and damp and very, very low-vibration."
She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with large, cartoon-perfect tears, her nose a delicate shade of pink. She looked around at the indifferent trees, looking for all the world like a Disney princess who had been dropped into a survival documentary by mistake.
"Is there anyone here?" she called out feebly, her voice hitching. "I think I’ve ruined my shoes. And my spirit."
Molly had fled the city hours ago, running from another whispered comment at the grocery store, another knowing look that made her feel dirty. She had driven until the road turned to gravel, then walked until her expensive Italian flats gave out. Now, she was hopelessly lost, a smudge of misplaced pastel pink against the overwhelming greens and browns of the wilderness.
She had collapsed at the base of a massive oak tree, her rose-colored silk wrap dress snagged irreparably on a bramble bush. She wasn't just crying; she was performing a tragedy for an audience of squirrels.
"Hooo-hoo-hooo..."
The wail was melodic, rhythmic, and utterly despairing. She had pulled her knees up to her chest, burying her face in her hands, rocking back and forth among the roots. Mud stained the hem of her dress, and a twig was tangled in her meticulously styled "honesty hair."
"It’s not fair," she sobbed into her palms, her voice a trembling flute sound. "I’m supposed to be in the Castle. I’m supposed to be soft. This moss is not soft. It’s scratchy and damp and very, very low-vibration."
She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with large, cartoon-perfect tears, her nose a delicate shade of pink. She looked around at the indifferent trees, looking for all the world like a Disney princess who had been dropped into a survival documentary by mistake.
"Is there anyone here?" she called out feebly, her voice hitching. "I think I’ve ruined my shoes. And my spirit."
You are on: Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » The Wilted Rose in the Woods (Private)