Icarus from Greek Mythology for today :)
Especially because of quarantine, been trying to do these now (maybe should go back and do the older ones)
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TOPIC | [WINDDOM] Mistral March • [CLOSED]
[img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/414961656419057664/691755438089175140/Falling.png[/img]
Icarus from Greek Mythology for today :)
Especially because of quarantine, been trying to do these now (maybe should go back and do the older ones)
Icarus from Greek Mythology for today :)
Especially because of quarantine, been trying to do these now (maybe should go back and do the older ones)
Giant anaconda because what're you gonna do? Grab it by the neck?
[img]https://i.imgur.com/McpsI39.jpg[/img]
Giant anaconda because what're you gonna do? Grab it by the neck?
 
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Pixel Familiars Adopt Shop | _________________________________ |
Hatchery Dress dragons. Win Treasure. |
 
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[img]https://i.imgur.com/zutixXp.png[/img]
Honestly a WIP Qilin but I think I’ve worked on this enough to submit, I may resume it later.
Honestly a WIP Qilin but I think I’ve worked on this enough to submit, I may resume it later.
The legendary Time Lord, the Doctor! :D
Featuring in [i]Doctor Who[/i]'s rendition of [i]A Christmas Carol[/i] (not necessarily relevant calendar-wise, but I thought it could be a "myth" or story of sorts - and I love fish), although how this picture relates to that tale may be unclear to those who haven't seen it - I do recommend!
[center][img]https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/g8gxtoPm6B-ZiahTkPZ1YzkY5luDAADsUKH4YTWED5jRXmpTKLlRptFBrT0lcfR4brJ8XGSrUAQlTGeH0eT3F3X-PJ4mdM2yEsLdddYDPrSdYglJixgG667yXcrln1esGDyxACXlmg8QuBKu4VShjs7wq7qCwwWMi-fCEu6UVt78BcpwpPz4XK_S3kQJUMmU2jqx-p0AowcJlaqe-ORTgJZIPxI0Nz2jwlu6zDMPuBX1Mxnmtp_uUart8xgTrYher2teK9SFOJMWvEZp42_EFWQbRYN_OcK3Pa4tCwJwxGKvjA8ke-0-UmncRvOog7cIsiFNgpzsvMOjiTZMAJfdEvP-AS2nuoT2PZZYu0YDMNo1dB9-sAhKfIYNpZ6ycDnmqvCEJZI0wpvYz9K4cGA-mkpDbYlQDYa81PBkeuuhbf2Sc7FYqHo-saOFFs55G-65VUVHBPNGBKqONRywJ0s1U6GeDI3lVj3TwFxPJz2su8Y_b7Ue6qx5BmdZMRLgJ2T6OoJRx1IFG7Vfq5dTfw4ABI8ENjMvQYECr-P4zdI4mE6Tq49UTfbXLYeI_jQhVAnfVASzxwfLY4GsDB52zWf580WLT9C46wWldk_74WkcVp4_C-38Ymo7YgFLWKrcv6g2rFwq_xFCGBnsP13W2Eatyss19Eg14LqiqtWForHn-bO23BSHTruQelB1ytKk8fc6jN9iHHrdqOFGdLba-saTizuZLTJL9pYbV1verHa_0xh4QkWD7bSMBzQ=w535-h438-no?.png[/img][/center]
The legendary Time Lord, the Doctor! :D
Featuring in Doctor Who's rendition of A Christmas Carol (not necessarily relevant calendar-wise, but I thought it could be a "myth" or story of sorts - and I love fish), although how this picture relates to that tale may be unclear to those who haven't seen it - I do recommend!
Featuring in Doctor Who's rendition of A Christmas Carol (not necessarily relevant calendar-wise, but I thought it could be a "myth" or story of sorts - and I love fish), although how this picture relates to that tale may be unclear to those who haven't seen it - I do recommend!
Day 23 - a tale based off moonflower: his legend
He’s there, then he’s not. He’s drifting, in and out of the trees. He’ll appear, then disappear when you turn away.
Villagers say that no one really knows what he is or where he came from. They say he appeared one year when the forest was dying and nurtured it back to life. And after? He stayed.
People say the forest shines if you go deep enough. They say there are strange creatures that fly and glow and play, and that he is one of them. They say he's a beast that lives off the lands of the village and the work of the villagers.
But the villagers say otherwise. They say he’s a protector, that he keeps the village and forest safe, directs lost children back to their homes and grants them good harvest every year. That he is old and powerful, and kind. That he is shy but gentle, distant but there.
Like clockwork, with every lunar eclipse, a man slips out of the forest and quietly joins in on the celebrations in the village. He’ll laugh and talk and smile, and the villagers will smile back. They welcome him as an old friend and celebrate a new moon together.
By morning, he’s gone again. And every time without fail, three white flowers are found on the table in each house of the village, a symbol of his protection and a promise for prosperity.
Who is he, you ask?
His name, no one knows. Those who did have passed. But the villagers call him the Moonflower of Alfheim.
Their god.
He’s there, then he’s not. He’s drifting, in and out of the trees. He’ll appear, then disappear when you turn away.
Villagers say that no one really knows what he is or where he came from. They say he appeared one year when the forest was dying and nurtured it back to life. And after? He stayed.
People say the forest shines if you go deep enough. They say there are strange creatures that fly and glow and play, and that he is one of them. They say he's a beast that lives off the lands of the village and the work of the villagers.
But the villagers say otherwise. They say he’s a protector, that he keeps the village and forest safe, directs lost children back to their homes and grants them good harvest every year. That he is old and powerful, and kind. That he is shy but gentle, distant but there.
Like clockwork, with every lunar eclipse, a man slips out of the forest and quietly joins in on the celebrations in the village. He’ll laugh and talk and smile, and the villagers will smile back. They welcome him as an old friend and celebrate a new moon together.
By morning, he’s gone again. And every time without fail, three white flowers are found on the table in each house of the village, a symbol of his protection and a promise for prosperity.
Who is he, you ask?
His name, no one knows. Those who did have passed. But the villagers call him the Moonflower of Alfheim.
Their god.
Day 23 - a tale based off moonflower: his legend
He’s there, then he’s not. He’s drifting, in and out of the trees. He’ll appear, then disappear when you turn away.
Villagers say that no one really knows what he is or where he came from. They say he appeared one year when the forest was dying and nurtured it back to life. And after? He stayed.
People say the forest shines if you go deep enough. They say there are strange creatures that fly and glow and play, and that he is one of them. They say he's a beast that lives off the lands of the village and the work of the villagers.
But the villagers say otherwise. They say he’s a protector, that he keeps the village and forest safe, directs lost children back to their homes and grants them good harvest every year. That he is old and powerful, and kind. That he is shy but gentle, distant but there.
Like clockwork, with every lunar eclipse, a man slips out of the forest and quietly joins in on the celebrations in the village. He’ll laugh and talk and smile, and the villagers will smile back. They welcome him as an old friend and celebrate a new moon together.
By morning, he’s gone again. And every time without fail, three white flowers are found on the table in each house of the village, a symbol of his protection and a promise for prosperity.
Who is he, you ask?
His name, no one knows. Those who did have passed. But the villagers call him the Moonflower of Alfheim.
Their god.
He’s there, then he’s not. He’s drifting, in and out of the trees. He’ll appear, then disappear when you turn away.
Villagers say that no one really knows what he is or where he came from. They say he appeared one year when the forest was dying and nurtured it back to life. And after? He stayed.
People say the forest shines if you go deep enough. They say there are strange creatures that fly and glow and play, and that he is one of them. They say he's a beast that lives off the lands of the village and the work of the villagers.
But the villagers say otherwise. They say he’s a protector, that he keeps the village and forest safe, directs lost children back to their homes and grants them good harvest every year. That he is old and powerful, and kind. That he is shy but gentle, distant but there.
Like clockwork, with every lunar eclipse, a man slips out of the forest and quietly joins in on the celebrations in the village. He’ll laugh and talk and smile, and the villagers will smile back. They welcome him as an old friend and celebrate a new moon together.
By morning, he’s gone again. And every time without fail, three white flowers are found on the table in each house of the village, a symbol of his protection and a promise for prosperity.
Who is he, you ask?
His name, no one knows. Those who did have passed. But the villagers call him the Moonflower of Alfheim.
Their god.
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“Arrogance is a creature. It does not have senses.
It has only a sharp tongue and the pointing finger.”
- Toba Beta
[img]https://i.imgur.com/kNp8Zyo.png[/img]
“Arrogance is a creature. It does not have senses.
It has only a sharp tongue and the pointing finger.”
- Toba Beta
It has only a sharp tongue and the pointing finger.”
- Toba Beta
   
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Did traditional again! idk how to take pictures :/
Chinese Dragon
[img]https://i.imgur.com/o0vjIsp.jpg[/img]
Did traditional again! idk how to take pictures :/
Chinese Dragon
Chinese Dragon
 +3 FR Time |
> Sterling/Star > Fine with any pronouns/neopronouns > I simply vibe ^v^ 
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Day 23: I HAD A FLASH OF INSP so here's a bit about a raptorik who knows the legend that's part of my dragon's lore!!
(I did this in like half an hour i'm sorry if it's full of errors ;w;)
Alum watches the hatchling carefully. They're so small, too small for a dragon out on their own, though they nearly dwarf him, still. Look at them, all oversized feet and wings speckled in pale blue-green stone and white stars. Goggles, cinched as tight as they go, hang off little antlers, and their eyes shine vibrant pink. He can't even play at speaking to the hatchling. The only noises they make are soft squeaks and the rumbles of a purr.
But the hatchling listens -- or tries -- when he points and chitters in his home tongue, and stays close when he hides from the more vicious of the other Beastclans. Or from other dragons. Ones who would do nothing good to an imperial hatchling that yet stumbles over its own feet. It's more work than Alum meant to take on, when the raptorik set out across the plains.
Except. Except Alum thinks to old tales, the few saved from his people's age, before the dragons and their gods came. The Beastclans had their own sorts of gods, or gods that weren't gods at all. Spirits, more like. Deities, maybe even. They came from nothing and nowhere in the clan's times of need, reigned in forces gone wild in lieu of the titans who brought the world into existence. The legends vary, sometimes, as spoken folklore so often does, but the end never changes: after these spirits save Alum's ancestors from their mistakes, they take on the faces and bodies and become mortal. They cast off the ethereal for the ephemeral and, across the world somewhere, their spirits still wander among them.
He knows the color of arcana in dragon eyes. Except this hatchling, through that vibrant pink, has eyes that remind Alum of siblings and wide gazes and downy-wings. Of stories of a many-winged traveller, with a name like sharp wind and the twirl of leaves, that sits around fires and curls among strangers like friends. And sometimes he finds feathers not his own that glimmer in the sun, fluffy and stuck between leather flaps and glittering scales. And the hatchling looks up at him while they press together in alcoves and hidey-holes, and sometimes he thinks this little one isn't a dragon at all.
And then he blinks, and he's the same old raptorik, and the hatchling is the same old baby, and it's foolish to wonder. But he does, nonetheless. And he can't just leave a baby behind.
Alum, slowly, shifts the goggles back over the little dragon's eyes, tightens it the littlest bit he can. They chirp twice, long then short, a facsimile of 'thank you'.
"You're welcome," he murmurs. And it's no dragon name, it's forbidden for his people to tell dragons their names, to let them use them -- too much power, it is -- but he thinks he's never met anyone, dragon or raptorik or harpy or whoever, that suits the name Zeviam more.
(He calls for the baby in the morning, threads gentle claws through their fur and asks to name them -- offers the name -- even though the child surely cannot understand.
They croon, and tip their head, and he swears the stretch of their lips could be something like a smile.)
(I did this in like half an hour i'm sorry if it's full of errors ;w;)
Alum watches the hatchling carefully. They're so small, too small for a dragon out on their own, though they nearly dwarf him, still. Look at them, all oversized feet and wings speckled in pale blue-green stone and white stars. Goggles, cinched as tight as they go, hang off little antlers, and their eyes shine vibrant pink. He can't even play at speaking to the hatchling. The only noises they make are soft squeaks and the rumbles of a purr.
But the hatchling listens -- or tries -- when he points and chitters in his home tongue, and stays close when he hides from the more vicious of the other Beastclans. Or from other dragons. Ones who would do nothing good to an imperial hatchling that yet stumbles over its own feet. It's more work than Alum meant to take on, when the raptorik set out across the plains.
Except. Except Alum thinks to old tales, the few saved from his people's age, before the dragons and their gods came. The Beastclans had their own sorts of gods, or gods that weren't gods at all. Spirits, more like. Deities, maybe even. They came from nothing and nowhere in the clan's times of need, reigned in forces gone wild in lieu of the titans who brought the world into existence. The legends vary, sometimes, as spoken folklore so often does, but the end never changes: after these spirits save Alum's ancestors from their mistakes, they take on the faces and bodies and become mortal. They cast off the ethereal for the ephemeral and, across the world somewhere, their spirits still wander among them.
He knows the color of arcana in dragon eyes. Except this hatchling, through that vibrant pink, has eyes that remind Alum of siblings and wide gazes and downy-wings. Of stories of a many-winged traveller, with a name like sharp wind and the twirl of leaves, that sits around fires and curls among strangers like friends. And sometimes he finds feathers not his own that glimmer in the sun, fluffy and stuck between leather flaps and glittering scales. And the hatchling looks up at him while they press together in alcoves and hidey-holes, and sometimes he thinks this little one isn't a dragon at all.
And then he blinks, and he's the same old raptorik, and the hatchling is the same old baby, and it's foolish to wonder. But he does, nonetheless. And he can't just leave a baby behind.
Alum, slowly, shifts the goggles back over the little dragon's eyes, tightens it the littlest bit he can. They chirp twice, long then short, a facsimile of 'thank you'.
"You're welcome," he murmurs. And it's no dragon name, it's forbidden for his people to tell dragons their names, to let them use them -- too much power, it is -- but he thinks he's never met anyone, dragon or raptorik or harpy or whoever, that suits the name Zeviam more.
(He calls for the baby in the morning, threads gentle claws through their fur and asks to name them -- offers the name -- even though the child surely cannot understand.
They croon, and tip their head, and he swears the stretch of their lips could be something like a smile.)
Day 23: I HAD A FLASH OF INSP so here's a bit about a raptorik who knows the legend that's part of my dragon's lore!!
(I did this in like half an hour i'm sorry if it's full of errors ;w;)
Alum watches the hatchling carefully. They're so small, too small for a dragon out on their own, though they nearly dwarf him, still. Look at them, all oversized feet and wings speckled in pale blue-green stone and white stars. Goggles, cinched as tight as they go, hang off little antlers, and their eyes shine vibrant pink. He can't even play at speaking to the hatchling. The only noises they make are soft squeaks and the rumbles of a purr.
But the hatchling listens -- or tries -- when he points and chitters in his home tongue, and stays close when he hides from the more vicious of the other Beastclans. Or from other dragons. Ones who would do nothing good to an imperial hatchling that yet stumbles over its own feet. It's more work than Alum meant to take on, when the raptorik set out across the plains.
Except. Except Alum thinks to old tales, the few saved from his people's age, before the dragons and their gods came. The Beastclans had their own sorts of gods, or gods that weren't gods at all. Spirits, more like. Deities, maybe even. They came from nothing and nowhere in the clan's times of need, reigned in forces gone wild in lieu of the titans who brought the world into existence. The legends vary, sometimes, as spoken folklore so often does, but the end never changes: after these spirits save Alum's ancestors from their mistakes, they take on the faces and bodies and become mortal. They cast off the ethereal for the ephemeral and, across the world somewhere, their spirits still wander among them.
He knows the color of arcana in dragon eyes. Except this hatchling, through that vibrant pink, has eyes that remind Alum of siblings and wide gazes and downy-wings. Of stories of a many-winged traveller, with a name like sharp wind and the twirl of leaves, that sits around fires and curls among strangers like friends. And sometimes he finds feathers not his own that glimmer in the sun, fluffy and stuck between leather flaps and glittering scales. And the hatchling looks up at him while they press together in alcoves and hidey-holes, and sometimes he thinks this little one isn't a dragon at all.
And then he blinks, and he's the same old raptorik, and the hatchling is the same old baby, and it's foolish to wonder. But he does, nonetheless. And he can't just leave a baby behind.
Alum, slowly, shifts the goggles back over the little dragon's eyes, tightens it the littlest bit he can. They chirp twice, long then short, a facsimile of 'thank you'.
"You're welcome," he murmurs. And it's no dragon name, it's forbidden for his people to tell dragons their names, to let them use them -- too much power, it is -- but he thinks he's never met anyone, dragon or raptorik or harpy or whoever, that suits the name Zeviam more.
(He calls for the baby in the morning, threads gentle claws through their fur and asks to name them -- offers the name -- even though the child surely cannot understand.
They croon, and tip their head, and he swears the stretch of their lips could be something like a smile.)
(I did this in like half an hour i'm sorry if it's full of errors ;w;)
Alum watches the hatchling carefully. They're so small, too small for a dragon out on their own, though they nearly dwarf him, still. Look at them, all oversized feet and wings speckled in pale blue-green stone and white stars. Goggles, cinched as tight as they go, hang off little antlers, and their eyes shine vibrant pink. He can't even play at speaking to the hatchling. The only noises they make are soft squeaks and the rumbles of a purr.
But the hatchling listens -- or tries -- when he points and chitters in his home tongue, and stays close when he hides from the more vicious of the other Beastclans. Or from other dragons. Ones who would do nothing good to an imperial hatchling that yet stumbles over its own feet. It's more work than Alum meant to take on, when the raptorik set out across the plains.
Except. Except Alum thinks to old tales, the few saved from his people's age, before the dragons and their gods came. The Beastclans had their own sorts of gods, or gods that weren't gods at all. Spirits, more like. Deities, maybe even. They came from nothing and nowhere in the clan's times of need, reigned in forces gone wild in lieu of the titans who brought the world into existence. The legends vary, sometimes, as spoken folklore so often does, but the end never changes: after these spirits save Alum's ancestors from their mistakes, they take on the faces and bodies and become mortal. They cast off the ethereal for the ephemeral and, across the world somewhere, their spirits still wander among them.
He knows the color of arcana in dragon eyes. Except this hatchling, through that vibrant pink, has eyes that remind Alum of siblings and wide gazes and downy-wings. Of stories of a many-winged traveller, with a name like sharp wind and the twirl of leaves, that sits around fires and curls among strangers like friends. And sometimes he finds feathers not his own that glimmer in the sun, fluffy and stuck between leather flaps and glittering scales. And the hatchling looks up at him while they press together in alcoves and hidey-holes, and sometimes he thinks this little one isn't a dragon at all.
And then he blinks, and he's the same old raptorik, and the hatchling is the same old baby, and it's foolish to wonder. But he does, nonetheless. And he can't just leave a baby behind.
Alum, slowly, shifts the goggles back over the little dragon's eyes, tightens it the littlest bit he can. They chirp twice, long then short, a facsimile of 'thank you'.
"You're welcome," he murmurs. And it's no dragon name, it's forbidden for his people to tell dragons their names, to let them use them -- too much power, it is -- but he thinks he's never met anyone, dragon or raptorik or harpy or whoever, that suits the name Zeviam more.
(He calls for the baby in the morning, threads gentle claws through their fur and asks to name them -- offers the name -- even though the child surely cannot understand.
They croon, and tip their head, and he swears the stretch of their lips could be something like a smile.)
[center][img]https://image.ibb.co/k4t3py/fancy-wind-v2.png[/img][/center]
[center][size=4][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2825887/1#post_42376961]About & Rules[/url] | [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2825887/1#post_42376962]Gallery[/url] | [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2825887/1#post_42376963]Current Prompts and Badges[/url] | [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2825887/1#post_42376964]Raffle[/url] | [url=https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/17vqW3RQ3EiOVQ_KOrLv8CVg5ojJUv5k-z7YJ7dNGfxU/edit#gid=0]Pinglist[/url][/size][/center]
[center][size=1]@Selah @Argante @Pac1fity @PunchingSolas @MythicalViper @MasqD @Taytenn @LavenderAmethyst @ladylilitu @Arinyl @bogbees @Joywing @cloudydawn @BetaOrionis @Mewru @crowvidae @charredh @shinrinyoku @Cerastium @trashsiren @Welgan @TheOtherKirby @Katsuji @TransientDays @Lallie @Shariza @PikaLink @Zephyrwing @Storygeek @MistyGold @sockmonkeygerald @Luciferr @Sinjin @ffloof @Trilonyte @wellykang @Shrapnarl @Kaivyrin @SkyfireArts @Zulaya @Hemmalaya @horocol @Acopytopy @shoydragon @Crystalinastar @Deladria @dd2900 @ProbablyLying @Qumack @Gathouria @Catgoat @napstabl00k @Mirrorlight @mothscale @Ebby172 @Rivertyl @Cates @Lyudmila @reilon @Andraya @Wolfstarblade @toadie @lyricalmyxteries @SterlingStars @Bananyan @GuardianDragonak @Giu @Ske1th @ProdigalSunlight @Marilith @Joule @Freybugg @Frostsol[/size][/center]
[columns][img]http://40.media.tumblr.com/8d2f2365c3327ab50c180027952d1042/tumblr_nti067xMTN1repldoo10_250.png[/img][nextcol][center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5]The Windsinger watches the pink morning sky with a twiddling brush between his fingers, tapping its wooden end to his lips. He hums a rhythmic little melody and feels a thoughtful pout forming on his face. Noticing you, he beckons you over with a gust of wind.[/center][/size][/font][/color][nextcol][img]http://40.media.tumblr.com/8d2f2365c3327ab50c180027952d1042/tumblr_nti067xMTN1repldoo10_250.png[/img][/columns]
[img]https://i.ibb.co/Q6DX05T/wind-dad-small-3.png[/img]
[img]https://i.ibb.co/JRzkdDH/speech-bubble-bottom.png[/img]
[center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5]
“What to do, what to do...? I am considering a grand finale of a piece to finish this spectacular event, but what to do! So many ideas, all upon the wind, and yet I cannot seem to settle! Oh, true to my nature, ha, ha!”[/size][/font][/color][/center]
[color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=7]Today’s Prompt:[/size][/font][/color]
[center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5][b]A Wind-erful Celebration[/b]
[b]ART PROMPT[/b]: Draw something wind-themed using the Wind Flight’s colour palette. [url=https://ibb.co/1ff7dFb]Reference here![/url]
[b]WRITING PROMPT[/b]: Write something pertaining to either Wind’s territory or using some of Wind’s canon lore! Could be a Flight Rep or just a random piece of prose!
[columns][img]https://i.ibb.co/vdJLrCg/talking-dad-left-2.png[/img][nextcol][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5]”This will be the penultimate prompt, and as such you will all be allowed [b]3 days[/b] to work on it to your heart’s content! I look forward to seeing what you all come up with!”[/columns]
[center][img]https://image.ibb.co/k4t3py/fancy-wind-v2.png[/img][/center]
@Selah @Argante @Pac1fity @PunchingSolas @MythicalViper @MasqD @Taytenn @LavenderAmethyst @ladylilitu @Arinyl @bogbees @Joywing @cloudydawn @BetaOrionis @Mewru @crowvidae @charredh @shinrinyoku @Cerastium @trashsiren @Welgan @TheOtherKirby @Katsuji @TransientDays @Lallie @Shariza @PikaLink @Zephyrwing @Storygeek @MistyGold @sockmonkeygerald @Luciferr @Sinjin @ffloof @Trilonyte @wellykang @Shrapnarl @Kaivyrin @SkyfireArts @Zulaya @Hemmalaya @horocol @Acopytopy @shoydragon @Crystalinastar @Deladria @dd2900 @ProbablyLying @Qumack @Gathouria @Catgoat @napstabl00k @Mirrorlight @mothscale @Ebby172 @Rivertyl @Cates @Lyudmila @reilon @Andraya @Wolfstarblade @toadie @lyricalmyxteries @SterlingStars @Bananyan @GuardianDragonak @Giu @Ske1th @ProdigalSunlight @Marilith @Joule @Freybugg @Frostsol
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The Windsinger watches the pink morning sky with a twiddling brush between his fingers, tapping its wooden end to his lips. He hums a rhythmic little melody and feels a thoughtful pout forming on his face. Noticing you, he beckons you over with a gust of wind.
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“What to do, what to do...? I am considering a grand finale of a piece to finish this spectacular event, but what to do! So many ideas, all upon the wind, and yet I cannot seem to settle! Oh, true to my nature, ha, ha!”
Today’s Prompt:
A Wind-erful Celebration
ART PROMPT: Draw something wind-themed using the Wind Flight’s colour palette. Reference here!
WRITING PROMPT: Write something pertaining to either Wind’s territory or using some of Wind’s canon lore! Could be a Flight Rep or just a random piece of prose!
ART PROMPT: Draw something wind-themed using the Wind Flight’s colour palette. Reference here!
WRITING PROMPT: Write something pertaining to either Wind’s territory or using some of Wind’s canon lore! Could be a Flight Rep or just a random piece of prose!
| ”This will be the penultimate prompt, and as such you will all be allowed 3 days to work on it to your heart’s content! I look forward to seeing what you all come up with!” |
Decided to get this one done so I don't procrastinate. :P Went for something more abstract, utilizing the themes of the Wind Flight.
Divine Wind
What is the wind?
It is the call to new adventures, says the Explorer of the North. It flies free with great vigor, the path on which one glides to faraway lands. It spoons to us alluring tastes never before seen, chirping and chattering, laughter and tears. The sharp chill of gales reminds us how far we have come, and how far we have yet to go. The skies above are our birthright, and all the lands below us are our home. We may land, and meet new faces, but we can never stay. Playful yet temporary, wise with travel, yet wide-eyed with wonder. In the state of seeing everything and nothing, is to be one with the winds.
It is the bearer of new life, says the Farmer of the East. For the caprices of the winds, there are patterns. Behind the chaos of ever shifting winds, the rain will arrive all the same, guided by an invisible brush. The sky is a canvas in monochrome, greys and blacks standing solemn in the sky. Even the bright optimism of the wind will pause, and the sky will weep. Washing over the steppes, the ground listens, drinking its tears. When the canvas is clear again, bleached to a blank slate, the colours spread to the earth, light flowers and tall reeds painting the cliffs. Like the cycle of the sky and earth, the rain-bearing wind will always remain.
It is the howl of battle, says the Warrior of the South. The winds are playful, but they are never weak. When the time comes, the winds echo the call to war. Like flocks of birds, battalions assemble with haste, harried by the blessing of Notus. Jetstreams cut their way through armies, striking and retreating, ebbing and flowing in a deadly dance. Blood and pain are drawn to life by talon and sword, but are whisked away just as quickly. Nothing can be heard but the rushing of air, speeding past the ears. Only when the foe is vanquished does the wind finally die down, left to contemplate the consequence in silence. The sacrifice of oneself to the eternal battle, is to honor the struggle of the Wind.
It is the messenger of words, says the Storyteller of the West. For the energy and vigor, the wind a being of wild excitement, it too has moments of pause. It offers gentle respite, caressing the face and body as one suns themselves on the cliffs. Playfully, it might tickle one’s side, with its long, thin fingers of grass. Close your eyes, and open your ears, and the wind will speak. Sometimes it carries those intangible whispers, of hopes and dreams, of comedy and tragedy. Other times, it delivers something more tangible, a treasure stolen at an inopportune time. A letter of love, written in curling letters. A complaint, penned down in jagged frustration. The winds do not discriminate, for it hears all secrets, eventually. It is in the calm, when all is heard is taken into oneself, that the invisible wind can be seen.
Cyclone, zephyr, gale, breeze, many names obtained for its many faces. It hides from sight, beckoning its children to action. Only when the wind dies, and fades to nothing, that we realize what it has done, weaving itself like a thread between lives. Regardless of its many natures, it has only one constant: it never remains the same.
Divine Wind
What is the wind?
It is the call to new adventures, says the Explorer of the North. It flies free with great vigor, the path on which one glides to faraway lands. It spoons to us alluring tastes never before seen, chirping and chattering, laughter and tears. The sharp chill of gales reminds us how far we have come, and how far we have yet to go. The skies above are our birthright, and all the lands below us are our home. We may land, and meet new faces, but we can never stay. Playful yet temporary, wise with travel, yet wide-eyed with wonder. In the state of seeing everything and nothing, is to be one with the winds.
It is the bearer of new life, says the Farmer of the East. For the caprices of the winds, there are patterns. Behind the chaos of ever shifting winds, the rain will arrive all the same, guided by an invisible brush. The sky is a canvas in monochrome, greys and blacks standing solemn in the sky. Even the bright optimism of the wind will pause, and the sky will weep. Washing over the steppes, the ground listens, drinking its tears. When the canvas is clear again, bleached to a blank slate, the colours spread to the earth, light flowers and tall reeds painting the cliffs. Like the cycle of the sky and earth, the rain-bearing wind will always remain.
It is the howl of battle, says the Warrior of the South. The winds are playful, but they are never weak. When the time comes, the winds echo the call to war. Like flocks of birds, battalions assemble with haste, harried by the blessing of Notus. Jetstreams cut their way through armies, striking and retreating, ebbing and flowing in a deadly dance. Blood and pain are drawn to life by talon and sword, but are whisked away just as quickly. Nothing can be heard but the rushing of air, speeding past the ears. Only when the foe is vanquished does the wind finally die down, left to contemplate the consequence in silence. The sacrifice of oneself to the eternal battle, is to honor the struggle of the Wind.
It is the messenger of words, says the Storyteller of the West. For the energy and vigor, the wind a being of wild excitement, it too has moments of pause. It offers gentle respite, caressing the face and body as one suns themselves on the cliffs. Playfully, it might tickle one’s side, with its long, thin fingers of grass. Close your eyes, and open your ears, and the wind will speak. Sometimes it carries those intangible whispers, of hopes and dreams, of comedy and tragedy. Other times, it delivers something more tangible, a treasure stolen at an inopportune time. A letter of love, written in curling letters. A complaint, penned down in jagged frustration. The winds do not discriminate, for it hears all secrets, eventually. It is in the calm, when all is heard is taken into oneself, that the invisible wind can be seen.
Cyclone, zephyr, gale, breeze, many names obtained for its many faces. It hides from sight, beckoning its children to action. Only when the wind dies, and fades to nothing, that we realize what it has done, weaving itself like a thread between lives. Regardless of its many natures, it has only one constant: it never remains the same.
Decided to get this one done so I don't procrastinate. :P Went for something more abstract, utilizing the themes of the Wind Flight.
Divine Wind
What is the wind?
It is the call to new adventures, says the Explorer of the North. It flies free with great vigor, the path on which one glides to faraway lands. It spoons to us alluring tastes never before seen, chirping and chattering, laughter and tears. The sharp chill of gales reminds us how far we have come, and how far we have yet to go. The skies above are our birthright, and all the lands below us are our home. We may land, and meet new faces, but we can never stay. Playful yet temporary, wise with travel, yet wide-eyed with wonder. In the state of seeing everything and nothing, is to be one with the winds.
It is the bearer of new life, says the Farmer of the East. For the caprices of the winds, there are patterns. Behind the chaos of ever shifting winds, the rain will arrive all the same, guided by an invisible brush. The sky is a canvas in monochrome, greys and blacks standing solemn in the sky. Even the bright optimism of the wind will pause, and the sky will weep. Washing over the steppes, the ground listens, drinking its tears. When the canvas is clear again, bleached to a blank slate, the colours spread to the earth, light flowers and tall reeds painting the cliffs. Like the cycle of the sky and earth, the rain-bearing wind will always remain.
It is the howl of battle, says the Warrior of the South. The winds are playful, but they are never weak. When the time comes, the winds echo the call to war. Like flocks of birds, battalions assemble with haste, harried by the blessing of Notus. Jetstreams cut their way through armies, striking and retreating, ebbing and flowing in a deadly dance. Blood and pain are drawn to life by talon and sword, but are whisked away just as quickly. Nothing can be heard but the rushing of air, speeding past the ears. Only when the foe is vanquished does the wind finally die down, left to contemplate the consequence in silence. The sacrifice of oneself to the eternal battle, is to honor the struggle of the Wind.
It is the messenger of words, says the Storyteller of the West. For the energy and vigor, the wind a being of wild excitement, it too has moments of pause. It offers gentle respite, caressing the face and body as one suns themselves on the cliffs. Playfully, it might tickle one’s side, with its long, thin fingers of grass. Close your eyes, and open your ears, and the wind will speak. Sometimes it carries those intangible whispers, of hopes and dreams, of comedy and tragedy. Other times, it delivers something more tangible, a treasure stolen at an inopportune time. A letter of love, written in curling letters. A complaint, penned down in jagged frustration. The winds do not discriminate, for it hears all secrets, eventually. It is in the calm, when all is heard is taken into oneself, that the invisible wind can be seen.
Cyclone, zephyr, gale, breeze, many names obtained for its many faces. It hides from sight, beckoning its children to action. Only when the wind dies, and fades to nothing, that we realize what it has done, weaving itself like a thread between lives. Regardless of its many natures, it has only one constant: it never remains the same.
Divine Wind
What is the wind?
It is the call to new adventures, says the Explorer of the North. It flies free with great vigor, the path on which one glides to faraway lands. It spoons to us alluring tastes never before seen, chirping and chattering, laughter and tears. The sharp chill of gales reminds us how far we have come, and how far we have yet to go. The skies above are our birthright, and all the lands below us are our home. We may land, and meet new faces, but we can never stay. Playful yet temporary, wise with travel, yet wide-eyed with wonder. In the state of seeing everything and nothing, is to be one with the winds.
It is the bearer of new life, says the Farmer of the East. For the caprices of the winds, there are patterns. Behind the chaos of ever shifting winds, the rain will arrive all the same, guided by an invisible brush. The sky is a canvas in monochrome, greys and blacks standing solemn in the sky. Even the bright optimism of the wind will pause, and the sky will weep. Washing over the steppes, the ground listens, drinking its tears. When the canvas is clear again, bleached to a blank slate, the colours spread to the earth, light flowers and tall reeds painting the cliffs. Like the cycle of the sky and earth, the rain-bearing wind will always remain.
It is the howl of battle, says the Warrior of the South. The winds are playful, but they are never weak. When the time comes, the winds echo the call to war. Like flocks of birds, battalions assemble with haste, harried by the blessing of Notus. Jetstreams cut their way through armies, striking and retreating, ebbing and flowing in a deadly dance. Blood and pain are drawn to life by talon and sword, but are whisked away just as quickly. Nothing can be heard but the rushing of air, speeding past the ears. Only when the foe is vanquished does the wind finally die down, left to contemplate the consequence in silence. The sacrifice of oneself to the eternal battle, is to honor the struggle of the Wind.
It is the messenger of words, says the Storyteller of the West. For the energy and vigor, the wind a being of wild excitement, it too has moments of pause. It offers gentle respite, caressing the face and body as one suns themselves on the cliffs. Playfully, it might tickle one’s side, with its long, thin fingers of grass. Close your eyes, and open your ears, and the wind will speak. Sometimes it carries those intangible whispers, of hopes and dreams, of comedy and tragedy. Other times, it delivers something more tangible, a treasure stolen at an inopportune time. A letter of love, written in curling letters. A complaint, penned down in jagged frustration. The winds do not discriminate, for it hears all secrets, eventually. It is in the calm, when all is heard is taken into oneself, that the invisible wind can be seen.
Cyclone, zephyr, gale, breeze, many names obtained for its many faces. It hides from sight, beckoning its children to action. Only when the wind dies, and fades to nothing, that we realize what it has done, weaving itself like a thread between lives. Regardless of its many natures, it has only one constant: it never remains the same.
