Profile
Holly sprout
And the birds will sing our song in Halcyon
Alias
The Flower Scion
The Flower Scion
Gender
Male (he/him)
Male (he/him)
Age
20
20
Alignment
Neutral Good
Neutral Good
Breed / Species
Welsh X Equine
Welsh X Equine
Magic
Floraekinesis
Floraekinesis
Cleft hoofprints press into the dirt, parting flowers with delicate care as they make a swirling, haphazard trail to a tiny, sturdy creature, humming mellow tunes. It seems neither this nor that, but exactly as is – neither male nor female, at least, not at first, easy glance. Soft and round, long lashes batting against a high, jolly cheekbone. Muscles twitching under a shiny coat, sinewy and lean, a distant walkers build, a hill-treader’s hind.
But mother had called him son, and that worked well enough in the end.
Lemony sunlight limns him, picking the ruddy undertones out from his dun coat; touching the harder, darker edges of the grease spots that festoon the curves of his neck, shoulders and haunches. Running warm fingers through his long, wavy wheat-coloured hair. He seems to lean into it. To raise his white-splashed face to the radiant heat like a worshipper caught in heliotropic prayer.
The bright gold of his eyes glint, mischief and contentment made bedfellows in the sharp, honest glance that lands like a curious distrust and provocation to play.
He picks flowers – violet larkspur, pink honeysuckle, yellow St John’s-wort – weaving them into a loose circlet and setting it down over his head. Somehow, he looks more complete that way. He is naked without, always finding seasonal plants from which to fashion headgear. Flowers in spring, summer, and fall; holly bearing red berries in the winter months.
But mother had called him son, and that worked well enough in the end.
Lemony sunlight limns him, picking the ruddy undertones out from his dun coat; touching the harder, darker edges of the grease spots that festoon the curves of his neck, shoulders and haunches. Running warm fingers through his long, wavy wheat-coloured hair. He seems to lean into it. To raise his white-splashed face to the radiant heat like a worshipper caught in heliotropic prayer.
The bright gold of his eyes glint, mischief and contentment made bedfellows in the sharp, honest glance that lands like a curious distrust and provocation to play.
He picks flowers – violet larkspur, pink honeysuckle, yellow St John’s-wort – weaving them into a loose circlet and setting it down over his head. Somehow, he looks more complete that way. He is naked without, always finding seasonal plants from which to fashion headgear. Flowers in spring, summer, and fall; holly bearing red berries in the winter months.
Personality
How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes
Huck seems to float on a breeze, a disparate seed. Always has. At first glance, there seems to be no direction. Made up on the spot, obliged to nothing but the passing of the sun and the spilling from one season into the next.
Wandering.
Searching.
But even the winds abide by systems unseen, and Huck is so married to an invisible hand of nature. A silk-thin string, pulling him towards some burgeoning new meadow of wildflowers, a distant land unfurling, naked and new and untouched. And so, he is restless. Airy. Bright and curious, but defensive and protective of things no one creature can possibly protect.
At once, he is both unassuming and fierce. Somehow, in the gentle way he seems to grow from roots made snug in the earth, he stands like a sentinel, glowering at that uncareful footfall that presses purple toadflax flat into the earth, taking a strained apology with a snort and downturned, disappointed pinkish lips.
It says, ‘I will have to fix that, now. Jerk.’
He does not easily suffer the negligent destruction of blooms.
In truth, his moods are best described in colour. Daffodil-yellow, cheery, curious, playful to an impish degree. Mallow-purple, contented, pensive – as sundowning brushes the world with soft, cool tones and the flowers, curl inwards.
Wither-brown. Abandoned and emptied. Reminded…
Searching.
But even the winds abide by systems unseen, and Huck is so married to an invisible hand of nature. A silk-thin string, pulling him towards some burgeoning new meadow of wildflowers, a distant land unfurling, naked and new and untouched. And so, he is restless. Airy. Bright and curious, but defensive and protective of things no one creature can possibly protect.
At once, he is both unassuming and fierce. Somehow, in the gentle way he seems to grow from roots made snug in the earth, he stands like a sentinel, glowering at that uncareful footfall that presses purple toadflax flat into the earth, taking a strained apology with a snort and downturned, disappointed pinkish lips.
It says, ‘I will have to fix that, now. Jerk.’
He does not easily suffer the negligent destruction of blooms.
In truth, his moods are best described in colour. Daffodil-yellow, cheery, curious, playful to an impish degree. Mallow-purple, contented, pensive – as sundowning brushes the world with soft, cool tones and the flowers, curl inwards.
Wither-brown. Abandoned and emptied. Reminded…
Intelligence
Charisma
Confidence
Humour
Empathy
Patience
- Flower Guardian
- Loyal
- Cautious
- Spritely
Inventory
I struggle to find any truth in your lies
Items
- Flower Crown
Flower Crown • Huck always wears a flower corenw, woven every few days from frewsh, local flowers and other vegetation
Weapon
Huck does not own a weapon
Magic
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know
Floraekinesis
1st level
They turn to look at him when he arrives.
The hollyhock. The St John’s wort. The daisies and the harebell. They lean towards, open their petals to him, as if he were a second sun in their atmosphere, caressing his ankles as he passes by, parting for his cleft hooves.
He is not their master. He is their Keeper.
He can manipulate flowers: create them, make seedlings grow and colour more vibrant. But only in their presence, the strength of his power dictated by the number of blooms in a radius around him; significantly decreased as the sun goes down and the flowers thin, leading to a noted weakness at night.
Not just a weakness of power. Weakness in general, as if he were a battery running out of charge. He becomes lethargic, despondent and sore, heavy, but often restless. He pays a great price, especially during the winter months, for his affinity.
The hollyhock. The St John’s wort. The daisies and the harebell. They lean towards, open their petals to him, as if he were a second sun in their atmosphere, caressing his ankles as he passes by, parting for his cleft hooves.
He is not their master. He is their Keeper.
He can manipulate flowers: create them, make seedlings grow and colour more vibrant. But only in their presence, the strength of his power dictated by the number of blooms in a radius around him; significantly decreased as the sun goes down and the flowers thin, leading to a noted weakness at night.
Not just a weakness of power. Weakness in general, as if he were a battery running out of charge. He becomes lethargic, despondent and sore, heavy, but often restless. He pays a great price, especially during the winter months, for his affinity.
History
My weakness I feel I must finally show
He carries it like a lit flame – the last spark – shielded by the breadth of his breastbone.
Close to his heart.
Please. Please. Please be alive.
✿
His home is a field gone to seed. Withered hollyhock and tansy. Bare oaks and naked larch, twisted like so many lovely bones. Yellowed grass, laid prostrate by a sickly wind.
‘Where did they go? What happened?”
What Once had been so beautiful. So vast with colour, so thick with life. What Once had been Elysium, proffered by no god but the ordered, giving hands of nature.
Once.
‘We ran out of Time.’
He is angry. He is sad. He understands that it is an irrevocable judgement, for there is no fighting Time.
Above the sun grows fat and red, heavy. Funereal.
It, too, is almost out of Time.
In this distance, a loud c-c-c-rack signals another fallen Family Tree.
‘The Harvest has come.’
✿
He shakes his head, tears trailing down his cheeks, but it is thrust towards him once more.
‘Take it! Keep it safe. This earth is salted. Nought will grow here, Huck, not ever again. Find it a home.”
He weeps. Says goodbye. Mourns and mourns again the bygone. The never again and the Once.
‘I can’t.’
‘You must, Huck.’
He bows his head, lets the elder place the seed in the nest of flowers crowning his ears.
✿
Time chases him.
Nature draws him.
It awakens. It unfurls. It loosens itself from the pit of the earth and takes him into its arms.
It matters not that it is land-with-no-name, that each tree that occupies the wild, unknown margins of that vast meadow is a young, limber body, and each cowslip and yarrow that turns to look at him is kin and kith to earth and not him, at all.
He squints, turning his eyes to the sky, to the butter-yellow sun that spills forth heat and life like a raucous youth.
Close to his heart.
Please. Please. Please be alive.
✿
His home is a field gone to seed. Withered hollyhock and tansy. Bare oaks and naked larch, twisted like so many lovely bones. Yellowed grass, laid prostrate by a sickly wind.
‘Where did they go? What happened?”
What Once had been so beautiful. So vast with colour, so thick with life. What Once had been Elysium, proffered by no god but the ordered, giving hands of nature.
Once.
‘We ran out of Time.’
He is angry. He is sad. He understands that it is an irrevocable judgement, for there is no fighting Time.
Above the sun grows fat and red, heavy. Funereal.
It, too, is almost out of Time.
In this distance, a loud c-c-c-rack signals another fallen Family Tree.
‘The Harvest has come.’
✿
He shakes his head, tears trailing down his cheeks, but it is thrust towards him once more.
‘Take it! Keep it safe. This earth is salted. Nought will grow here, Huck, not ever again. Find it a home.”
He weeps. Says goodbye. Mourns and mourns again the bygone. The never again and the Once.
‘I can’t.’
‘You must, Huck.’
He bows his head, lets the elder place the seed in the nest of flowers crowning his ears.
✿
Time chases him.
Nature draws him.
It awakens. It unfurls. It loosens itself from the pit of the earth and takes him into its arms.
It matters not that it is land-with-no-name, that each tree that occupies the wild, unknown margins of that vast meadow is a young, limber body, and each cowslip and yarrow that turns to look at him is kin and kith to earth and not him, at all.
He squints, turning his eyes to the sky, to the butter-yellow sun that spills forth heat and life like a raucous youth.
Relationships
And now I call you to pray
Huck found Mossfleck asleep in a tulip and the two became fast friends over a morning conversation about pollin and nectar.
View More
Recent Images
