((And because it's me. Things'll get smutty, 'tis true.))
The river is shallow but wide, and flanked by reeds. The air hangs close and hot, nearly tropical. The heat and rich soil have combined to give a home to long grass and broad-leafed trees and massive, colourful flowers. The trees themselves, palms and cycads, seem... newer than such species ought to be. As though they can trace back only to a point within living memory instead of to the dawn of life on this planet like so many other examples of this ancient plant can do.
It very likely has something to do with that wall cutting him off from the flowers and plants, and with that massive power that sits in the centre of the village.
The village itself, nestled in a valley (the trees would speak of mountains younger than any mountains should be), also seems strangely new, as though settled only within three generations at most. The people, a colourful mix who speak South American Spanish...
...only they don't, do they? Or, if they do, it's suddenly become as easy to understand as English--something to do with that magic permeating the place...
direct him toward the giant hacienda that dominates the settlement. If he's lost, and it certainly seems as though he is, the Madrigals should be able to help him, right? There isn't much any of the villagers can do, in the midst of finishing all their repairs.
The hacienda. It's the source of that power, and at closer observation the power seems less like a singular thing and more like a kind of tapestry, woven tightly and securely of vastly diverse but united threads. A family? Quite possibly, if the front door is anything to go by, bearing what looks like a carefully wrought image of twelve people.
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The river is shallow but wide, and flanked by reeds. The air hangs close and hot, nearly tropical. The heat and rich soil have combined to give a home to long grass and broad-leafed trees and massive, colourful flowers. The trees themselves, palms and cycads, seem... newer than such species ought to be. As though they can trace back only to a point within living memory instead of to the dawn of life on this planet like so many other examples of this ancient plant can do.
It very likely has something to do with that wall cutting him off from the flowers and plants, and with that massive power that sits in the centre of the village.
The village itself, nestled in a valley (the trees would speak of mountains younger than any mountains should be), also seems strangely new, as though settled only within three generations at most. The people, a colourful mix who speak South American Spanish...
...only they don't, do they? Or, if they do, it's suddenly become as easy to understand as English--something to do with that magic permeating the place...
direct him toward the giant hacienda that dominates the settlement. If he's lost, and it certainly seems as though he is, the Madrigals should be able to help him, right? There isn't much any of the villagers can do, in the midst of finishing all their repairs.
The hacienda. It's the source of that power, and at closer observation the power seems less like a singular thing and more like a kind of tapestry, woven tightly and securely of vastly diverse but united threads. A family? Quite possibly, if the front door is anything to go by, bearing what looks like a carefully wrought image of twelve people.
The place feels... alive, somehow.