rosalina wolfe | ten . fin . cb

you weave stories with romanticized drama and theatrics. mother always told you not to tell fairy tales, but what fun would it be if you were to follow rules. they were meant to be broken after all. blood red lips and tales of silver tongues, words fall from your lips as you tell your sister about the girl who became a princess. even if the story was dramatized, it just adds that extra flare when you tell it to someone else. she smiled and giggled, mother would not be happy, but your sister needs happiness in this place. you made a story about your family once, the legacy of satin brown eyes and lengthy black hair.

you knew father would approve. he was a storyteller as well, but he crafted interesting tales with lessons buried within. he used to tell you them, your ears always perked up as he read you to sleep.

but then one day he died.

you tried to pick up the pieces he left, you hope you have made him proud. you share the art of storytelling, an art that has long been forgotten.

sometimes you can even feel him looking upon you, a cold shiver that gets sent down your spine.

father was a storyteller, and now that his reign has passed. it's time for you to be the next storyteller.

let's hope your story is good.