Trimmed
The hallmark of the lion’s pride is its glistening, golden mane. Once shorn, the luster of the large cat appears lesser; diminished. Hawthorn reflected on this knowledge in silence as she swayed the scabbard of her short, iron dagger between her tawny fingers. A long mane in a vast, labyrinthine tangle of bronze and crimson flowed between the fingers of her other hand, scarlet eyes searching her reflection for explanation. As of late, the forest’s growth had hastened spontaneously, and thus the connection between her and the sacred land had resulted in an odd conundrum; her usual short, shaggy and fluffy hair had taken a page out of Rapunzel’s tale and blossomed into a veil of locks. No matter what the doe had done, the hair had simply regrown to its’ elongated length a week later. Though, she supposed it aided in maintenance, for her hair appeared to reject dirt and maintain a certain luster and gleam… as if the gem within her body had cast its polish upon her locks. She sighed, drew her arm back, snatched a handful and scored a perfect line through the tresses, releasing them onto the floor. It may be beautiful, but it was impractical, and bothered the doe. Frowning in resignation that this was now a part of her routine, she scowled as she rose from her vanity and rolled her shoulders, feeling the freedom of her exposed neck. The lack of weight upon it made her sigh in relief, abandoning the heap of copper tresses upon the floor.
YakuKid
YakuKid
10 months ago
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