[ It is not, at first, clear what sorts of fruits they are—and upon closer inspection, you realize the source of your own confusion: each platter is laden with an impossibly wide variety of shapes and colors. The fruits themselves—grapes, pomegranates, mandarins, species you can’t even name—are all vividly colored, as if fresh from some painter’s brush. How many kinds are there? Perhaps every kind? All of them are layered with a freckling of warm-glowing light.
For all the impossible perfection of the fruit, there is something almost welcoming about it—not a compulsion; just a gentle, almost home-y feeling.
Just like the fruit, the pitchers' metals are almost impossibly vivid. They’re golden, too bright to be real, but inside you can smell fresh milk. The sweet scent of honey wafts from another pitcher, and from another, fresh wine. ]
[ The gentle feeling stirs something in her, but she leaves it at that. She doesn't know what might happen if she partook, and it wouldn't be good protocol for exploring anyway.
[ You walk down the hallway; it stretches endlessly, it seems, to the point that your eyes begin to play tricks on you. The further you go, the more the hallway seems to twist, and you feel a sudden drowsiness— ]
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Re: THE COURTYARD
Re: THE COURTYARD
Re: THE COURTYARD
I suppose there can be no answer, for now.
Re: THE COURTYARD
For all the impossible perfection of the fruit, there is something almost welcoming about it—not a compulsion; just a gentle, almost home-y feeling.
Just like the fruit, the pitchers' metals are almost impossibly vivid. They’re golden, too bright to be real, but inside you can smell fresh milk. The sweet scent of honey wafts from another pitcher, and from another, fresh wine. ]
Re: THE COURTYARD
She ventures down the hallway. ]
Re: THE COURTYARD