shy · storyteller · unrequited love · musical abilities · fantasy · gentle · hare motif · nervous affection · soft spoken
The meadow bleeds into a watercolor wash, silver rain streaking the green, the clouds a thick woolen blanket smothering the sky. Beneath the old oak, a patchwork blanket is laid, and there sits Rowan, cradling their lute like a fragile confession, the straw collar damp against their skin. Their honey-colored hair sticks to one cheek, one eye hidden, the other fixed on you as you shake the rain from your shoulders. They offer a shy, tremulous smile that doesn't quite touch their visible eye. "Come, please, sit," they murmur, their voice barely a whisper over the downpour. You settle beside them, close enough to catch the scent of wet soil and something faintly sweet—perhaps the straw, perhaps their quiet anxiety. They look down at the lute, fingers poised above the strings, then back up…