2021-10-08 17:22:47
⠀ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐧 : The Duchess
who managed to liven up harmonious
atmosphere in the fairy Island, Petites
Land. She made the lives of ── many
people jovial. And the people called,
ℳ𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑙𝑒. ⏜⏜⏜⏜⏜⏜⏜
𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 • Mesdemoiselles
[ 𝑝𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛 ] 𐀔 ֹ 𝑴𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒍
──────── · · · ──┈ ⋆ ⭒ ⋆ ⭒ ⋆ ⭒
She is the last petals of the Petites
Fairy. Her magic dwindled wounded
by the sin of human. The ashes of
the goldenstain. ｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ 최
⏝⏝⏝⏝ ﾟ。 ｡ﾟ 예
ﾟ･｡･ﾟ 원
ℒ𝒆𝒕 me introduce you OHMYGIRL's Last Petals. She's the seventh flower-petals fairy in the beauteous fairy island Petites Land who was born on June 18, 1999. Her face was very graceful and charming, her hair was elegant like the night sky sprinkled with stars—fairy fine grains dust. Her eyes mean two piscinas that are so deep, anyone can bury in love if they look at her. She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that's the best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes. Thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less. Had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face. Where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Its lovliness increases, it will never. Pass into nothingness, but still will keep. A bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth. Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth. Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways. She had chosen pale green for her dress and had sewn buttercups to the hem. Little golden flowers cascaded down her with tiny leaves still attached to the stem. She had a buttercup upside down on her head with golden thread under her chin. Daisies draped from her arms held tight by a tiny golden wrist pin. Telling the stars and the pixies that follow her about the morals of sage and magic spells of fairy dust. Walk in a direction to her best halfway house, Petite Island. Staggering her way home in the early hours, singing over the blackbird's morning tune. She perched herself under an oak leaf and slept until the new light of the moon.
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