He almost cringes - the vines around him actually do, thorns sprouting thicker. "Why would you call it that?"
The small space of shadows around America is closed in by the growing green, the bright sunshine, and where the hate and resentment she keeps around herself touches the edges of his influence, it takes a form he recognizes - glittering, oily black sand, floating and reshaping itself according to the fears America gives it to work with.
Bunny eyes the sand, then America, then the sand again, skepticism and suspicion in his glance. He reaches out with a hind paw to tap it with one claw. At his touch, the sand ripples from black and sticky into glittering gold, shimmering and flowing in graceful and delightful shapes, the stuff of nightmares transformed into the stuff of sweet dreams.
She definitely left her soul behind for this mission, if she hasn't had it carved out of her body already.
As for restraining his influence - it's already spreading far, streaming out from him in widening circle. As America withdraws her influence, the vines and flowers grow that much thicker, tulip-like blossoms opening and depositing eggs onto the ground. Even the dew that drips from the leaves and petals is dye, splashing on the white shells in little bursts of color.
This world is desperate for cultivation, and he is a cultivator. His will, for centuries, has been bent to the cultivation of a world less malleable than this, to making a world for mortals better by existing in it. The matter around him, stripped of its information, soaks up purpose like he is a fountain.
His urge to keep projecting this bounty upon the world, to quickly fill the void with a purpose that is shining and providential, can only be reigned in by America's reminder that they might need the element of surprise. A healthy, beautiful environment might be out of place enough here to tip off their enemies to a nature spirit's presence.
Horrifying as it is not to give this world the influence of being what he wills it - and he'd will it to be something beautiful, all right - the kids are most important. Bunny closes his eyes, and clears his mind with a deep breath. The green ceases to spread, the flowers pausing in their growth, and the dew that drips from the leaves loses its color. Eggs vanish in the undergrowth, the unique little things that mark the signature of Easter vanishing into the green that remains. That, at least, stays where it is. Bunny might be able to will it away, but he isn't doing it - grass and flowers, after all, don't have his signature on them the way Easter eggs and dye rivers do.
"Let's go figure out what's in place, then," he says, loping to the edge of the greenery for a look.
no subject
The small space of shadows around America is closed in by the growing green, the bright sunshine, and where the hate and resentment she keeps around herself touches the edges of his influence, it takes a form he recognizes - glittering, oily black sand, floating and reshaping itself according to the fears America gives it to work with.
Bunny eyes the sand, then America, then the sand again, skepticism and suspicion in his glance. He reaches out with a hind paw to tap it with one claw. At his touch, the sand ripples from black and sticky into glittering gold, shimmering and flowing in graceful and delightful shapes, the stuff of nightmares transformed into the stuff of sweet dreams.
She definitely left her soul behind for this mission, if she hasn't had it carved out of her body already.
As for restraining his influence - it's already spreading far, streaming out from him in widening circle. As America withdraws her influence, the vines and flowers grow that much thicker, tulip-like blossoms opening and depositing eggs onto the ground. Even the dew that drips from the leaves and petals is dye, splashing on the white shells in little bursts of color.
This world is desperate for cultivation, and he is a cultivator. His will, for centuries, has been bent to the cultivation of a world less malleable than this, to making a world for mortals better by existing in it. The matter around him, stripped of its information, soaks up purpose like he is a fountain.
His urge to keep projecting this bounty upon the world, to quickly fill the void with a purpose that is shining and providential, can only be reigned in by America's reminder that they might need the element of surprise. A healthy, beautiful environment might be out of place enough here to tip off their enemies to a nature spirit's presence.
Horrifying as it is not to give this world the influence of being what he wills it - and he'd will it to be something beautiful, all right - the kids are most important. Bunny closes his eyes, and clears his mind with a deep breath. The green ceases to spread, the flowers pausing in their growth, and the dew that drips from the leaves loses its color. Eggs vanish in the undergrowth, the unique little things that mark the signature of Easter vanishing into the green that remains. That, at least, stays where it is. Bunny might be able to will it away, but he isn't doing it - grass and flowers, after all, don't have his signature on them the way Easter eggs and dye rivers do.
"Let's go figure out what's in place, then," he says, loping to the edge of the greenery for a look.