[Canis2954]

Oo.. is there a limit on like, traits?? The power thing, like. Limit? No limit? xD

No limit on powers. ouo

[mikey]

IS there extras allowed? ;v;

[apprentice_]

to my form :0c

[yen.]

Is a screenshot of the 100 grains donated sufficient if you don't want to make an account on freerice?

[Canis2954]

@Sketchii: Certainly! uwu
@star: Sure c:

[The Worst Username]

Oh my goodness, what a gorgeous Kal! Is this the first GIF Kalon? I'll make my form later, but for now: rice

Dropping! Good luck to the rest of you.

He shuffles out the door, saying nothing; she stares out the window into her forest, just as mute as he is. Ananke is holding a crumpled, yellowed envelope in her paws, and she is remembering the day they moved into this little cottage in the woods: just a week after their wedding. That day, the great oaks and birches which stretched high up into a wide blue sky were alluring. Now, she knows the land. Ananke can name every tree and plant and animal. She has memorized the little paths going deep into the heart of the forest. All of the major ones have titles—Anchor Trail, Mezzanine Trail, Pond Trail, Birch Trail. There are some that don’t have titles at all, the small, winding ones that go nowhere, and these are her favorite. But even they have become familiar. All of the forest has morphed from a beautiful mystery to a routine to a symbol: the symbol of a failing marriage and an empty woman.

Ananke almost gets up to go follow him to the garage, where he’ll get his bike and ride to the bus stop, but she doesn’t; she knows it will be halfhearted. She stopped doing that almost a year ago, anyways.

Instead, she just turns around and looks at her home: an old couch and a squat chair sit together, next to an old bookshelf, and the ceiling is low. The walls are forest green. Everything smells of tea and rice, dirt and boots. There are four doors. One leads to the kitchen, another to the bathroom, the third to the bedroom, and the last one to the outdoors. It is a cozy little place, lit by warm lamps, flickering candles. But the house is silent, and the house is empty.

Ananke shifts, turning a morose face to the window again. Her eyes reach out for it, but her mouth is set in a line. Her bones feel like great hunks of lead in her body; her antlers feel like iron haphazardly melded to her skull; the forest growing out of her back feels like an enormous pile of rocks. Ananke’s eyelids are heavy, too.

She looks down at the envelope crumpled in her paws, judging it as a jury might judge a criminal. “What else? What else is there to do?” Ananke asks, sets herself down, and opens the envelope; it’s been opened a hundred times. She knows without looking that the paper is creamy white, it has a tear in one corner, and it’s written in a sloppy cursive script.

“Good morning, child. I’m sorry—I don’t really know what I’m supposed to write, or if I’m supposed to write anything—I was never all that good with letters. But, if you’re here, looking over my hodgepodge of messy ink letters, then you must be the Savior. I don’t know what to call you, really. How about Ananke? That’s for the Ancient Greek deity, a personification of necessity. And you, child, are necessary. I don’t know how to say this, but: I’m dying. I created you from a seed in the ground and if I’m lucky, by the time I turn to dust, you will have bloomed out of the ground a beautiful and fully formed creature. You owe your life to me, remember that—because I spent my life protecting this forest, and yours will be spent protecting it in my name.

“I love you, child.”

Ananke thinks that the letter’s author was a woman, an old woman, whose face sagged like the chair in the corner and whose voice was soft as butter. She slows down her voice, letting it drop to near silence as she reads.

“Mysterious author,” Ananke murmurs, coming out of her old-woman voice, “is this your forest? Is this it? The one you spent your life protecting, so now I have to give up mine to wallow in it? Who were you, even?” No one hears. Of course, no one hears. “So, I’ve lived here since my twenties, in this forest, and now…I know everything. Every path, every tree, every animal, every plant. What do I do?”

Ananke looks down at the letter half-torn from its hiding place. “Now, here I am…but God. I sound like a supplicant, a whiner, a beggar.” She turns her head, looking back out the window, into the forest. Ananke sits in silence as clouds roll overhead, as minutes tick by. She cringes; pain shoots up her back and straight into her brain.

[dzo]

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My Form
My Rice

[WanSham]

res with living in a forest where trench warfare from WW1 and air raids from WW2 took place.

-smooth green trees
-winter is mostly dead
-fought in the war
-horrible fighter

[danibo]

aye minti, is it okay to do certain areas of the forest on one oekaki page and then do writing and link to the overall oekaki page/cover thing?

[Guest]

bless this kalon ,,
also i love freerice <":