***
Trees blowing into each other creaked their protest, even though it wasn't their fault. They couldn't blame the wind buffeting them and stripping them of their covering leaves, now old and colored with death in browns and colors of flame. Darkness shrouded the wind's horrible acts, yet many could still feel the whipping branches slap the air as the leaves fell, carrying twigs with them. Even the boughs of the Great Oak suffered in the icy blasts of Autumnal nights, slowly being stripped bare even though her branches did not sway nearly as forcefully as her children's.
Spores of giant mushrooms floated on the air in golden flocks, clinging to grass and trunks and stone. Though the pale light of the hidden moon was weak, it illuminated a golden blizzard that left everything as if a child's craft, complete with excess glitter glue. The air was filled with more floating spores, fireflies that like the moon could not make their own light. The real lightning bugs had gone into hiding to escape the wicked wind, as a deer to a predator would, grumbling jealously that the golden flecks could withstand the gusts that they could not.
The black gossamer blanket that spread over the land did so with a nod in the opposite direction of how a blanket should temper what it covers. Instead of causing sweat, the inhabitants would breathe steam into the chilled air, showing that its temperature was well below the weather inside their living forms. It is well-known that though a fall night is alive with hurried movement, it is also quite chilling to be a part of. It stripped the trees of cover and the warmth from those who hadn't found adequate shelter, whisking it away and into the oblivion that was the darkness beyond one's field of vision.
It was difficult to find a tree with girth enough to protect oneself aside from the already tightly-populated Great Oak, yet Moss seemed to have found one worth his long time of searching. He carefully positioned himself among the large roots, his body almost hidden by the tricky wind's gusts. It still managed to sneak through every once in a while, ruffling his fur and leaving him a little more chilled than before. Moss was grateful for his undercoat, which kept most of the heat close to his skin. He also was grateful for his pictogram, as it produced some heat by itself on most cool nights. He drifted to sleep by its gentle glow, pulsing with each living breath he took. Without a sound, it slowed, becoming still but retaining its gentle beacon of light, until Moss' mind flew far away and into his dreams.
Faraway forests greeted his mind, gifting it a similar body to his own. The tines on his head curved forward into a crown as his now bold brown fur ruffled gently in the wind. A white chest heaved as the dream-deer flew over the landscape. He startled thickets of grouse with his light frame and sharp hooves, laughing as they danced around him before settling back down to a daytime routine. The nostrils at the end of his long snout flared in satisfaction as the whitetail stag stomped a greeting to his world. A harem of does raised their heads from behind long grasses to greet Moss, their fawns moving on gangling legs among the strong ones of the mothers. Each of Moss' children bore the faces of deer, spots of fawn, and fluffy white tails. Somehow, the stag thought this was how it should be. He did remind himself often, though, that this was just a dream. When he returned to himself the stag would realize that he was a large stag with no desire to fight and no harem to protect. At least by living through his dreams the stag would be able to protect those around him from harm without truly causing injury to others. On and on he could dream, but he would always have to return to reality.
A gust of wind sent Moss' soul hurtling into his body once more. He quickly blinked away sleep from his black eyes before licking his black and white pelt smooth again where the wind had disarranged it. Ears back and eyes forward, the stag glared into the darkened wood before once again letting calm soften his expression. The dreams of life as a true stag were grand, but they always left him sour upon waking. Wind slapped his face to remind him that he was who he was, no matter the dreams he had. Always, Moss had to remind himself to fall back into the role he was given so generously and realize that he was truly loved for it. No matter the storms raging around him, the stag was loved for being the calm and gentle koi-turned-deer.
Antlers clattering quietly against the roots of the wide oak tree, Moss drifted off to a dreamless and peaceful sleep again. He would wait for dawn to come, carrying with it his sunny disposition.
***
No other words to say other
To have a character that is more yourself than you know; Pan is me as much as she is herself.
It's a powerful connection, good and bad.
Gorgeous writing, too.
Thank you, Panda. And it is