The forest warped and swayed around her. The shadows grew and spread away from the things casting them. They rippled and gathered in pools surrounding her. Whether she spoke aloud or just projected it, she didn't know. "Greetings spirits. I come to pay my respects to the guardians of the forest and the souls of those who have passed." One of the larger shadow pools on her left rose. And twisted. A humanoid figure of nearly-featureless darkness stood, back slightly hunched. Stars where eyes should be stared at her in acknowledgement. It wasn't friendly. It wasn't unfriendly. It was entirely out of the bounds of human description. You are known The words left her breathless as they plunged down through her mind into her soul. She bowed her head in reply. Begin

And she did. She sang. Greetings, messages, news from the world outside the forest. She sang the song of the last year just as she had done the last 7 years. Those, living and dead, that inhabited the forest were never unaware of the happenings outside their corner of the world. As the song came to an end, morning had begun to dawn. The witch's voice cracked as she spoke the words at last. Finishing the ritual each daughter of her line had completed for centuries. "Blessed be."

Moonlight is sunlight, but just shy of its burning radiance. It's the on the other side of the coin, the nightly shine to the daily shine, the silver to the gold. It's the subtle flash of cosmic shine in spells, to the brass hellfire and roar of sunlit spells.

Wolves of the night rise and die by moonlight. They shed skin to their true forms under the peak of the moon's gleam. and they fall to the metal most associated to the moon.

Witches flirt with both lit sides of the day. In one jar, they will collect the streaming rays of moon's shine until it coalesces at the bottom of it; silvery glittering liquid that both offers the shrouding protection of the night, and will banish the illusions that evening-bound darkness can weave. In the same span of hours, they will extract sunlit drips in another, through their setup of magicked mirrors and an open window, a golden honey-like substance that both heals and burns.

Moonlight protects through hiding, through a silver thread spun at midnight weaved into an invisibility cloak, through an unpickable lock that has been washed in moon rays eleven times. Moonlight destroys through piercing, through taking the stage's curtains and throwing them away and leaving it in the open, through an enchanted arrow that always hits its mark, through a knife's edge dripping with starlight and engraved with silver always cutting through armor and illusion and shade.

Sunlight protects with its glare, with its shine, with its flames. It protects loudly, bathing those under its guard in golden glow, proclaiming "you will not harm them", scorching those who dare to challenge it. It destroys, it obliterates through roaring flame to char, through its glaring shine to blind, through a lion charmed from years of shaping rays of daylight and fed on sunlit drips that will never lose the scent of its prey, through a staff tipped by a sun-blessed ruby that conjures flames that only die when drowned by a naiad's tears, through a sun-priest's golden stare, a stare that had its sight robbed by its god's rays, but granted a sight that transcends the mortal plane.

Memories fade.

The soft summer wind wisping away the sweltering heat, beating down on the crops that her father had worked so hard to plant and grow. The heat that dried out the land and caught fire, the same wind that would cool the sweat on her face sent sparks flying into every field – creating flames that roared across the land, wiping away the hard work of many men and women just like her father. These were only the vague and dull memories that remained of her last summer.

Fires are shiny things, like a glittering coin, or the tears in a mother’s eyes as she watches the last dying embers of a burnt field that her daughter had been playing in that morning, knowing that the golden blonde streak of hair she had seen disappearing into the wheat, was the last she would ever see of her daughter.

Using the prompt spirits, flowers... I hope it's not too short.

when you left, only the trees were there to take the edge off. warmly looming, so much like gentle gods, they nodded to your departure and my bitter sadness. in the wind of longing i watched them wave the yellow flowers between their leaves, relentlessly blooming. the sky didn't stop to cry, it cried as the sun moved and then it too moved on - ever changeless in its changing. and so it goes, each season tender as it waves away the last.

Hey have a nice day =) Only if you have one too~ Did you remember to get milk? Nope I got ice cream instead! =D Wait was that for you, oops I ate it. What no way, well looks like I'll need to get more Chocolate sauce too? Always, wouldn't be my famous dish without it! See you on the couch at 9:30? I wouldn't miss it for the world!

Clearly not my best but I may redo it.

She works in silence, and so does her companion, other than the rhythmic clanging of stone on stone as the other sharpens arrowheads. The weather is getting colder, and while there are fewer mouths to feed with just the two of them, there are also fewer hunters to rely on. And this will be their first winter alone. She shuffles closer to the fire, hoping for more light to see by.

It won't be easy, but all they can do is try.

The mermaid was swimming quickly towards the dark sandy beach. It was almost sunrise and the sea was quiet. All of the night creatures were going to sleep and the day creatures hadn't woken yet. The water was dark and cold but she barely noticed it. Her scales were the same dark blue and black as the waters around her. They glinted as she rose up and looked towards the empty beach. Up ahead she spotted the group of large brown rocks she was aiming for. She slowed down as she got closer, some of them were submerged and not always easy to see in the gloom. She followed the sharp shapes with her hands, pulling herself forwards closer to the base of the outcropping. She found the natural shelf she'd been waiting for and pulled herself up and out of the water.

Under the water mermaids are graceful, on land, not so much. She'd been doing this for so long though that she'd grown stronger and barely noticed the effort now. She situated herself on top of the rocks, her back to the beach and the land beyond. In front of her stretched the most beautiful place in the world to her heart- her home, the sea. She took her duty to it very seriously. Inside one of the lips in the rock she had hidden a very slender branch, worn smooth with seawater and salt air, it was white in the darkness. It was her baton.

Clearing her throat she began to wave the baton in the air just as a conductor would. She matched the speed of the waves, which was very slow at this time of day. Softly she began to hum and it seemed like the beach was holding it's breath, listening closely. The water liked her voice, it sounded like what it was, gentle, soft, and sleepy. It moved to her song, resting in her melody. She smiled despite herself, she loved the sea when it was like this. She began to sing a little bit faster now, the notes ranging out a little bit farther and her baton began to swish more quickly. The sea resisted, just a bit at first, waiting to see if it would go back. She persisted and the waves moved a little bit faster too. She had it's full attention. Louder she sang, the melody grew and quickened. Awaken! It said, her baton twirled through the air as the sea responded. Just over the horizon she saw the first pink of sunrise. Colors began pouring into the sky and she guided them into her song. She sang of the warmth of the sun, the salt, the feeling of weightlessness, of fish uncountable, the kelps and seaweeds, the corals, of the life and lives of those that lived within it, and those that depended on the sea for their lively-hood. She sang of daytime, of the sun in reds and pinks and yellows, of the water in blues, greens and grays. She sang of swimming and tidal waves and everything in between, and mostly she sang of it's potential. Her voice soared up and down the scales, calling forth the dawn, serenading the sea to wakefulness.

The sun rose fully, the sky was beautiful in pinks reaching to blue, as the waves stirred and crashed to the sandy shore in white foamy splashes. The mermaid stopped singing and stared out at the new day. It was going to be amazing.

The woman at his side shades her eyes and peers out into the dry grass. "Endless," she whispers. "It goes on forever."

"Not forever," he replies. He has seen years pass like the grains of sand in an hourglass, trickling through his fingers unceasingly. For all the years he's walked this world though, age never wearies him, his memories accumulate, burden upon him and then fade indistinct. There is little that surprises him now and even this vast plain pales in comparison to some of the roads he's travelled. Logically, he knows it cannot go on forever.

The look on his companion's face troubles him for some reason. They've been travelling together for almost a week now and still her wide eyed naivety catches him off guard. She's not young in terms of average age, but to him, she's but a child, her well-boasted fifty seasons of adventuring as but dust in the face of his years.

The mingled expressions of joy and hope and wonder etched on her features reminds him of someone, somewhen. He turns his face away, looking instead towards the sun and the sea of grass.

"Everything comes to an end." He gathers the reins and nudges his horse forward with his heels. "We just forget how big the world is."

Her King has adorned her with medals, given her the highest honours and a place in his council. The soldiers of the army know her as a fair and genial commander, one they can relate to, one who knows personally the cost of war. The common people hail her as an impersonal hero, a figure of admiration, distant and cold in her drab uniform but a symbol of their country's might nonetheless. General Winter, they all call her, as cold and as beautiful as her magic.

The fifth anniversary of a major victory is celebrated with a military parade. She rides in an armoured vehicle at the head of the march, two cars behind the Marshal Commander of the entire army. Passing the King, she salutes to him and holds her position as a good soldier should. The throngs of civilians cheer, throw flowers and wave flags until the last soldier has marched by.

Half-drunk in the barracks that night, she forgets herself momentarily in discussion over the table. "It doesn’t take that much effort," she chuckles, waving away the suggestion with a casual hand. "Summoning a snowstorm just takes power. Making flowers takes skill."

She twirls a hand and grasps downwards as if plucking something from the air. Moisture crystallises into ice and she frowns at the slow conjuring of solid from vapour, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Finally, finally, she holds a delicate ice iris in her hand, glass-clear and in every way perfect.

The officers beside her and across the table applaud her heartily but she waves away their admiration dismissively. "Winter is unkind to flowers," she says laughingly. "They wither and disappear in the frost. I'd prefer recognition, a good salary and medals over a dead plant any day." She lays the iris down in an empty tureen and they all resume their meal in good cheer.

Three hours later, as all the dishes are being cleared, there is nothing left of the flower but shallow and formless meltwater, evaporating already into the thin air.

(if her name was once Iris and if magical manifestation is triggered with heavy emotion … it might make more sense?)