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don't let them die on the vine // { day 3 tea party }
Jul 5, 2019 11:03:30 GMT -5
Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Jul 5, 2019 11:03:30 GMT -5
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put the flowers you find in a vase
if you're dead in the mind it'll brighten the place
don't let them die on the vine it's a waste
if you're dead in the mind it'll brighten the place
don't let them die on the vine it's a waste
The garden provides. A watering can, copper and shaped like a goat butting its head, approximates a kettle. Hoses and spigots and sprinkler systems provide water that, astoundingly, is quite potable. Every herb, plant, flower, bud, spice, fruit he's ever dreamed of decks the aisles of the massive agricultural complex: some hanging above his head, some littered at his feet.
If the pain wasn't there to remind Cedar Halt that he's sill very much alive, actually, he might be convinced that he is dead and that this is the sort of personalized afterlife that only Ripred could provide. It's a little worse thinking about how this little microcosm paradise is implicitly a hellscape, considering its purpose, so Cedar doesn't; instead, he ignores all the little voices in his head telling him to stay still and to rest and to draw his blaster and to hide in the stringy pale roots of the aerial lettuce patch.
The flames are harder to ignore. Warily, he approaches the signal fire. Surely it's a trap, but wouldn't it be nice to actually boil the water for his tea? (He ignores the memory from that morning, pretending that it was a dream when he put his hands up and pled for peace, only to get blasted in the chest before the bouquet he dropped even hit the ground.) He could choose to live the rest of his life afraid, to die timid and wary. Or he could choose to hope for the best in people come nightfall, even in a hard situation.
The fire in sight, he locks his eyes on Nell Cyprus, choosing to believe that this is the girl with the burning questions about flounder over lunch and not the one that shot him in the back during the bloodbath. He opens his fist, showing off the enormous buds he'd found hidden away between some unassuming shrubs. (He'd been hunting for something medicinal to take with his tea and, well, the garden provides.) There's more in his pack, and some cinnamon and citrus peel and cardamom and ginger and cloves, and all of the flowers tucked into the chest of his robe like an overgrown boutonniere.
"Don't kill me?" he asks, optimistic that this time it will be enough. "I was going to make tea. I'd love to share."
If the pain wasn't there to remind Cedar Halt that he's sill very much alive, actually, he might be convinced that he is dead and that this is the sort of personalized afterlife that only Ripred could provide. It's a little worse thinking about how this little microcosm paradise is implicitly a hellscape, considering its purpose, so Cedar doesn't; instead, he ignores all the little voices in his head telling him to stay still and to rest and to draw his blaster and to hide in the stringy pale roots of the aerial lettuce patch.
The flames are harder to ignore. Warily, he approaches the signal fire. Surely it's a trap, but wouldn't it be nice to actually boil the water for his tea? (He ignores the memory from that morning, pretending that it was a dream when he put his hands up and pled for peace, only to get blasted in the chest before the bouquet he dropped even hit the ground.) He could choose to live the rest of his life afraid, to die timid and wary. Or he could choose to hope for the best in people come nightfall, even in a hard situation.
The fire in sight, he locks his eyes on Nell Cyprus, choosing to believe that this is the girl with the burning questions about flounder over lunch and not the one that shot him in the back during the bloodbath. He opens his fist, showing off the enormous buds he'd found hidden away between some unassuming shrubs. (He'd been hunting for something medicinal to take with his tea and, well, the garden provides.) There's more in his pack, and some cinnamon and citrus peel and cardamom and ginger and cloves, and all of the flowers tucked into the chest of his robe like an overgrown boutonniere.
"Don't kill me?" he asks, optimistic that this time it will be enough. "I was going to make tea. I'd love to share."
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