( it seems to you upon your waking that you're somewhere you oughn't be; not because it's forbidden, but because there's a primal instinct deep down that tells you that this is not a place fit for people to be in.

regaining your senses a little you can't say you're much assuaged: it's dark in here, it's very dark, and the air is thick like there's not much of it going out; its scent is stagnant, and something might as well die in here. but there is air, and there is light; just barely any. the light is a faint aurora-like haze coming from some direction you can't quite recognize, and it feels almost like the depths of a cave (it is a little bit cold, now that you think about it), and it does seem a little bit natural the way the floor and walls, pad together, but there's something about the shape of things that make give the whole thing an attitude of something sculpted men. in fact if you were to measure it, you'd find the whole thing not more than seven feet in any direction, a little too perfect for nature's hand.

as your vision adjusts, you catch sight of someone just some feet off, his legs loosely drawn up but with bright, suspicious eyes, and blonde hair dully gleaming in the light. he seems no more than 17. his top is off and it's hard to tell, but 'long the front of his body and threatening to touch his shoulders and thighs are what seem to be tattoos of roses done in a minimal style, though the skin around many seem bright red and swollen; like they were recently done, but a little too much to be usual. around his neck there is a symbol, and a tattooed collar of prickling thorns. it seems there might be more marks along his back, but there's no redness there. )

Are you here, ( he says slowly, with careful respect, ) to test me somehow? I'm afraid I didn't see you come in.

( now for something a little less complex. miai is where they give out colored strips, and he has a pen in hand and his paper in the other. now, he might be waiting for you because you have an arrangement with him - maybe even a date - or he might just be here, mingling in the festival, stopping on his way to run into something else. his yukata is simple and white, its accents a light blue and a little bit of gold.

regardless, he seems quite stumped by the colored paper, and he looks like he can't quite decide if he's better to put this down, or if he ought to write on it— and, if he will write, just what sort of wish he should choose. after fruitless contemplation he eventually turns the slip over (although both sides are blank) and begins, it seems, to doodle on the other side, like it might bring him inspiration: lovely full roses with unfurling petals, their vines curling fluid around the strip. he hums, thoughtfully; evidently, he really is still thinking. )

( contact me at rosiere to plot, or surprise me! new and old cr welcome! )