Little Missy Muffet comes from a peticular family: human from a mother, spider from a father, she knows her nursery rhyme by heart, and arrives at Monster High slowly, carried by the spidery strangeness of her childhood. But the relationship between...
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˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
Only dawn was the victorious witness.
She was famous and beautiful in her abstract gold borders, crowned with fiery lilies, dressed like an imaginary spring rose.
New Salem slept and would always sleep, whatever the time and the size. The Moth-Men will leave their freedom to go to rest, the wandering boogey always will return before the drawings of the pale hours venture beyond their coats of arms, and before the parallel worlds of the heart will destroy their own ruins.
Nora would always remember this valley, which had once welcomed her in her first anxiety as head of a certain high school. It was a cage of green and petaled gold. A scent so fragile, ghostly, and yet, so dignified in the spirit of their modesty.
The morning was the pearl in the vase; she made the final touches to this secret painting.
Nightmare herself, despite her nature as a quadruped mare, had this symbiotic relationship with her mistress, which pushed her to soak up the place. To immerse herself in it and share her feelings with her second tied soul. An eternal hill, an uncertain depression, leading into one of the oldest forests of the most bewitched millennia in all of New Salem.
Flowers of brew animating the slopes like multicolored earth urchins worshiping the sky. Losing one's head for Nora Bloodgood was a beneficial weapon. A blessing.
At least, when she was the one getting power over it. In her bag, there were only the last letters of files, the final signatures to be approved, and she would be able to flutter like all and nothing more. In the imperial mantles of the void, she still had this curse which forbade her to forget her position, in front of the dawns and in front of anything and everything.
Even passion and quality were not a lasting safeguard.
"It's poetry for a crying man."
The veil thickened, Nightmare began to remain on the defensive, yet at a mystical distance from his second soul before this same symbiosis responded to the familiarity of this nevertheless intrusive aura. And a mare with fiery indigo was a recommendable barrier between the flowers of evil and the strangeness of these discussed and debatable territories.
"Stop, I'm here to find myself a little. Not to create a spleen. Go tell that to Nightmare, she's the only one who can tolerate your humor."
"Nora, stop showing me your privileges, please. You're at Mother Nature's womb, a position in the eye of the storm. And me, I support in continuity a function, with families and entire households of hunters with less than flattened egos...and this honeyed burden called 'blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh'."
