[ 9 ☽ 15 ☼ 2011 年 ]
The miracles of spring. It was wondrous, amazing, symphonic, blissful, fantastic, incredible, astounding, beautiful, phenomenal, and marvelous. Castell had many more adjectives for spring, but for the sake of sparing the poor eyes of some unfortunate bystander, we will refrain from spilling all of our flee-brained Castell's thoughts onto the fresh livery.
Mind you, spring wasn't even this arctic fox's favorite season. Fall was more like it. Then at least, in autumn, Castell could twirl about and exude exciting (and pessimistic, but Castell liked pessimistic—it made him seem more legit and serious-looking) personas full of death and rotting cold. Everyone liked the serious males, assassin-like and mysterious ones, anyways.
Regardless, it was spring. And since it was spring, Castell therefore was obliged to act "spring-like". Oh, the stereotype. The flowers, the rain, and joyous arrival of new life and warmth! Hark! Let the music of the birds sing!
What sort of Couseran were you, anyways, if you couldn't play your part in the grand scheme of the weather? When it's sunny, one is supposed to act cheerful and beaming. When it is raining, one is supposed to act miserable and sullen. It was an axiom of Castell's self-proclaimed imaginary world (probably created in impulse a few minutes ago). The grand idea: Castell would put on the facade of the weather, and bother the fleas out of anyone that showed up.
"Hark! Here comes a minstrel, fallen from the sky!" the fox cried, upon seeing the large creature that bore down from above him. Despite the threatening appearance of the new arrival, Castell seemed unperturbed in his antic acts.
"Oh, shall this be winter, let this con-fuddle my thoughts! Whence was it that a mere common-warrior as myself be talking lines of poetry?! It is spring! Joyous spring! It is Spring, and the sky rains feathers! Oh Creatrix, am I going mad? Save me dear visitor, from this unnecessary plight of poetry!"
Did Castell's words make sense? Probably not. It came to show regardless, that a certain arctic fox on a certain spring day certainly had too much time on his hands. Idleness could be a sin, and those left with nothing to do were oft to find trouble and a pinch of madness.
Poetry?! How un-avviarean. But perhaps that was the purpose. Did you even expect something normal from a fox named after a cloud?
What are you even supposed to do when you meet insane characters, anyways?
((ooc; ummm. This was completely unintended. Cloud started writing and err... HAMLET started appearing. When this starts happening, you can tell Cloud's maybe had a little too much of school |D Umm, if you can't work with this, let Cloud know and he'll rewrite. This was a 15 min post after all.))
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【 cloud - written 2729 days ago 】
