@Schingiuire
Congrats on your senior project!
Here’s the entry for this psycho throw rug. It’s just some loose prose for today. I’ll defiantly give him a real story or two eventually.
When the dye maker’s fur was smooth and fine, he waited in the steam, watching onion skins bleed red into the water.
He watched as the boiling water stole the color and burned it into the fibers while the plants withered away. It was fascinating. Plants lived on nothing but light, yet they grew and bloomed, spreading their children across the forest floor.
The dye maker brushed the water with a stained paw, testing the strength of the color. It was bright, red as a fox, but weak. It needed more heat. More time.
He breathed in the steam and picked up the prism he kept at his side, holding it up to the light. The colors split instantly, lining itself in a rainbow across his paw.
This was true color, bright against his mottled fur, purer than the musty red he was brewing in his pot.
He scrutinized the prism light, determined to discover how it split into colors so cleanly. If a shard of glass could cut the light, then why couldn’t his boiling pots?
When the dye maker’s fur was thick and corse, nettled with sticks and slivers of bark, a mother came to him. She fought her way through his tangled garden, supporting a hatchling too big to carry.
“They said you could help.” The mother said, struggling to keep the hatchling upright. “Do you know what to do?”
The dye maker could barely see the hatchling’s blue feathers beneath the pox, and his breath came slow shallow.
He nodded.
There was no magic for this, but dye maker he kept the hatchling warm and gave him sips of water, watching his feathers grow brighter by the day. He spoke kind words to the mother, that her hatchling would be chasing geese and snapping at little birds again before the spring.
He was right, of course. And when the mother asked about his fee, he placed his glass-tipped staff on the hatchling’s bright feathers.
The mother said nothing. She nodded and turned, guiding her pale white hatchling away from the lair between the vines.
The dye maker smiled at the shimmering blue that hovered in the air and drunk it in, letting the color crackle in his mouth. He could feel it wind through is veins and bleed into his fur, fresh as they sky above.
The dye maker considered his glass-tipped staff, letting it refract the light that filtered through the vines, scattering it into rainbows on the ground cover. There were so many possibilities, when one could cut the light.
Congrats on your senior project!
Here’s the entry for this psycho throw rug. It’s just some loose prose for today. I’ll defiantly give him a real story or two eventually.
When the dye maker’s fur was smooth and fine, he waited in the steam, watching onion skins bleed red into the water.
He watched as the boiling water stole the color and burned it into the fibers while the plants withered away. It was fascinating. Plants lived on nothing but light, yet they grew and bloomed, spreading their children across the forest floor.
The dye maker brushed the water with a stained paw, testing the strength of the color. It was bright, red as a fox, but weak. It needed more heat. More time.
He breathed in the steam and picked up the prism he kept at his side, holding it up to the light. The colors split instantly, lining itself in a rainbow across his paw.
This was true color, bright against his mottled fur, purer than the musty red he was brewing in his pot.
He scrutinized the prism light, determined to discover how it split into colors so cleanly. If a shard of glass could cut the light, then why couldn’t his boiling pots?
When the dye maker’s fur was thick and corse, nettled with sticks and slivers of bark, a mother came to him. She fought her way through his tangled garden, supporting a hatchling too big to carry.
“They said you could help.” The mother said, struggling to keep the hatchling upright. “Do you know what to do?”
The dye maker could barely see the hatchling’s blue feathers beneath the pox, and his breath came slow shallow.
He nodded.
There was no magic for this, but dye maker he kept the hatchling warm and gave him sips of water, watching his feathers grow brighter by the day. He spoke kind words to the mother, that her hatchling would be chasing geese and snapping at little birds again before the spring.
He was right, of course. And when the mother asked about his fee, he placed his glass-tipped staff on the hatchling’s bright feathers.
The mother said nothing. She nodded and turned, guiding her pale white hatchling away from the lair between the vines.
The dye maker smiled at the shimmering blue that hovered in the air and drunk it in, letting the color crackle in his mouth. He could feel it wind through is veins and bleed into his fur, fresh as they sky above.
The dye maker considered his glass-tipped staff, letting it refract the light that filtered through the vines, scattering it into rainbows on the ground cover. There were so many possibilities, when one could cut the light.
