This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

This kin does not yet have a naming dream posted.

Lithe, limbs thin like a crane. The forest is verdant and she is white, a hart, a hind, with cheeks blushing cherry. The flush carries down into her throat, into her joints. Innocent, pure. She walks like the first breath of dawn.

This is spring, she its daughter. Fragrant and sweet, romance. And where the forest ends is unknown. Warnings from mother say do not go. Do not go. Curious, oh so curious. It's just a veil, an illusion of end; they all bleed, spring into summer into fall into winter. Mix and mingle. An orgy of nature's own.

She walks to the end; to where the world twists upside down and there are roots. Skeleton bones wreathing the crowns of the dead. She watches, curious. For it is lit by moon, the land still green, roots splaying into life, unlife. And then there is death herself. Gold.

Spring's daughter throws off her skin, beneath the blushing white, is the truth. A warrior, fierce, unafraid. She smiles, bows to the mare. And death is entranced, curious too.

Who is the beauty, who is the beast. Neither, both, halves of wholes.

The merry sun sinks into the horizon, warms the cold skin of death, as the shade cools the heat. A rose red, thorned by her lover, grows strong.