Petal Storm

The wind starts slow: a draft, barely enough to rustle your hair, certainly much less interesting than the carpet of petals under your feet. Then it builds: a breeze, a flurry, a gale, picking up more and more of those petals until the air becomes a ceaseless swirl of every color imaginable. Tributes who brave the storm will walk on past strange plants—barren-looking shrubs that shed flowers from hidden centers as they sway in the wind, trees exploding with color as the grafted branches of dozens of species blossom at once—and eventually break through to an eye of stillness at the center of the area. It's beautiful here, with a still pond covered in gently floating petals—almost idyllic, if not for the howl of the wind not far away, and the ever-present promise of the Games haunting you. ~WT