Information
Zephyr has a minion!
Minion the Koots
Minion the Koots
Zephyr
Legacy Name: Zephyryne
The
Storm ArchanOwner:
AngewomonAge: 14 years, 9 months, 2 weeks
Born: July 15th, 2009
Adopted: 10 years, 9 months, 1 week ago
Adopted: July 22nd, 2013
Statistics
- Level: 25
- Strength: 63
- Defense: 64
- Speed: 55
- Health: 50
- HP: 30/50
- Intelligence: 77
- Books Read: 74
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Security Guard
Oh, my love has gone,
Carried away by the see,
But, no matter how long,
That I have to wait,
I swear to always wait for thee...
The woman scanned the horizon as she clutched the remainder of a dying flower, the last reminder of his existence. "It's been years, lass." Her father murmured, gently, his wrinkled face furrowed in concern. "You can't keep mourning him like this. It's time to move on." He placed his hand on her elbow, a gesture of comfort, but she continued to ignore him, her eyes ever vigilant in their surveillance of the oceanscape before her. After a few moments of silence, he left.
And she waited.
She struck a lonesome silhouette atop the bleak cliff, staring into the distance, seemingly unmovable. When was the last time she had moved? Even as the wind tore at her clothes and the wind howled in her ears, still she did not move. For just a moment, her gaze dropped to the dying bloom in her grasp. So long ago he had presented it to her. Oh, why did he have to leave? She had begged him to stay, shrieking of the dangers of the far shores. Yet, his desperation to travel was just as great as hers to make him stay. He would not remain in their tiny hamlet, known for its terrible storms and nothing else. He was meant for more, he said; to see more, learn more. He wanted to know what else was out in the world. "I will return," he had promised after all of her protestations. "No matter what else there is out in the world, I will always return to you. Just promise to wait for me."
She promised to wait.
Promises could only go so far, however, and he knew that she would worry. So, on the eve of his departure, he gifted her with a magical rose, one that would remain alive as long as his health remained fair. It had been red then, so long ago, vibrant and lively, much like he had been. A year quickly passed, with no word from her betrothed, and the flower remained healthy. Every day she climbed to the top of the cliff, searching for any sign of his return, even as the weather took a turn for the worse. She just needed to be patient, she knew. The elements meant nothing to her, as long as the flower kept its color.
Ignoring the rain and the wind and the cold, she continued to wait.
But, as the storm raged on, the flower began to fade. The desaturation was subtle at first, barely perceptible, but as the days passed, with the choppy seas still showing no sign of her true love, the flower began to wilt. The edges of the petals began to curl and stiffen, the stem transitioning from verdant green to the brown of death. As the panic and fear set in, her travels to the cliff-side became longer and more frequent, until she simply stopped leaving her perch. The flower was wrong, she told herself, her eyes, blurry from a mixture of rain and tears, scouring the horizon for the white of his sails. She would wait for him on the top of the cliff. She would wait. She would wait. He would come home safely.
And she would wait.
Even through the unending storm, she waited. The waves crashed against the cliff, lapping at its rocky face. Rain and hail, heavy enough to scare even the boldest into the safety of their homes, pelted against her pale skin, leaving vicious red welts. Lighting shot down from the sky, searing the ground mere feet from where she stood. The wind howled and shrieked and tore at her clothes. The cold and wet sank into her bones, leaving her chilled and miserable.
Yet, despite the viciousness of the storm, she waited.
But the world did not wait for her. Behind the curtain of fog and rain, her surroundings grew and changed, modernized. With her gaze on the sea, she did not notice as her home began to grow. Her father passed away and her friends grew up, forming and raising families of their own, before they, too, slipped into the abyss of death. Newer, more modern buildings were erected, changing the hamlet to a village and then into a town. Torches lighting the path ways became gas lamps and then electric. The dirt road, once so heavily traveled by horses and caravans, widened and then was paved to be more fitting for the automobile. The forest was cut down in order to make room for the growing population and to provide lumber for the neighboring towns and cities as well. As she watched, the world had quickly left her behind.
And still she waited.
As the decades became centuries and the centuries passed, she became something of a legend. The woman on the cliff, forever waiting for her love to return from his travels. Mothers told their children her story at bedtime, their voices punctuated by the ever-present rumble of thunder. Teenaged siblings, pretending not to listen from across the room, swooned in secret at the romance of the woman's ordeal.
How strong their love must have been, they thought, for her to keep waiting.
The citizens of the town that was once hers built a plaque, describing the legend, at her feet. Businesses took on her name to increase popularity and revenue. Tourists, passing through on their way to see more famous attractions, occasionally ventured up to her perch. Sometimes they would just stare out into the ocean, shivering in the cold as they struggled to understand the love she must have felt for her betrothed. Others snapped pictures of the gloomy monument before hurrying back to the warmth of their cars. Some even claimed that, on particularly blustery days, if you listened closely, you could almost hear a woman quietly singing,
Oh, my love has gone,
Carried away by the sea,
But, no matter how long,
That I have to wait,
I swear to always wait for thee...
Carried away by the see,
But, no matter how long,
That I have to wait,
I swear to always wait for thee...
The woman scanned the horizon as she clutched the remainder of a dying flower, the last reminder of his existence. "It's been years, lass." Her father murmured, gently, his wrinkled face furrowed in concern. "You can't keep mourning him like this. It's time to move on." He placed his hand on her elbow, a gesture of comfort, but she continued to ignore him, her eyes ever vigilant in their surveillance of the oceanscape before her. After a few moments of silence, he left.
And she waited.
She struck a lonesome silhouette atop the bleak cliff, staring into the distance, seemingly unmovable. When was the last time she had moved? Even as the wind tore at her clothes and the wind howled in her ears, still she did not move. For just a moment, her gaze dropped to the dying bloom in her grasp. So long ago he had presented it to her. Oh, why did he have to leave? She had begged him to stay, shrieking of the dangers of the far shores. Yet, his desperation to travel was just as great as hers to make him stay. He would not remain in their tiny hamlet, known for its terrible storms and nothing else. He was meant for more, he said; to see more, learn more. He wanted to know what else was out in the world. "I will return," he had promised after all of her protestations. "No matter what else there is out in the world, I will always return to you. Just promise to wait for me."
She promised to wait.
Promises could only go so far, however, and he knew that she would worry. So, on the eve of his departure, he gifted her with a magical rose, one that would remain alive as long as his health remained fair. It had been red then, so long ago, vibrant and lively, much like he had been. A year quickly passed, with no word from her betrothed, and the flower remained healthy. Every day she climbed to the top of the cliff, searching for any sign of his return, even as the weather took a turn for the worse. She just needed to be patient, she knew. The elements meant nothing to her, as long as the flower kept its color.
Ignoring the rain and the wind and the cold, she continued to wait.
But, as the storm raged on, the flower began to fade. The desaturation was subtle at first, barely perceptible, but as the days passed, with the choppy seas still showing no sign of her true love, the flower began to wilt. The edges of the petals began to curl and stiffen, the stem transitioning from verdant green to the brown of death. As the panic and fear set in, her travels to the cliff-side became longer and more frequent, until she simply stopped leaving her perch. The flower was wrong, she told herself, her eyes, blurry from a mixture of rain and tears, scouring the horizon for the white of his sails. She would wait for him on the top of the cliff. She would wait. She would wait. He would come home safely.
And she would wait.
Even through the unending storm, she waited. The waves crashed against the cliff, lapping at its rocky face. Rain and hail, heavy enough to scare even the boldest into the safety of their homes, pelted against her pale skin, leaving vicious red welts. Lighting shot down from the sky, searing the ground mere feet from where she stood. The wind howled and shrieked and tore at her clothes. The cold and wet sank into her bones, leaving her chilled and miserable.
Yet, despite the viciousness of the storm, she waited.
But the world did not wait for her. Behind the curtain of fog and rain, her surroundings grew and changed, modernized. With her gaze on the sea, she did not notice as her home began to grow. Her father passed away and her friends grew up, forming and raising families of their own, before they, too, slipped into the abyss of death. Newer, more modern buildings were erected, changing the hamlet to a village and then into a town. Torches lighting the path ways became gas lamps and then electric. The dirt road, once so heavily traveled by horses and caravans, widened and then was paved to be more fitting for the automobile. The forest was cut down in order to make room for the growing population and to provide lumber for the neighboring towns and cities as well. As she watched, the world had quickly left her behind.
And still she waited.
As the decades became centuries and the centuries passed, she became something of a legend. The woman on the cliff, forever waiting for her love to return from his travels. Mothers told their children her story at bedtime, their voices punctuated by the ever-present rumble of thunder. Teenaged siblings, pretending not to listen from across the room, swooned in secret at the romance of the woman's ordeal.
How strong their love must have been, they thought, for her to keep waiting.
The citizens of the town that was once hers built a plaque, describing the legend, at her feet. Businesses took on her name to increase popularity and revenue. Tourists, passing through on their way to see more famous attractions, occasionally ventured up to her perch. Sometimes they would just stare out into the ocean, shivering in the cold as they struggled to understand the love she must have felt for her betrothed. Others snapped pictures of the gloomy monument before hurrying back to the warmth of their cars. Some even claimed that, on particularly blustery days, if you listened closely, you could almost hear a woman quietly singing,
Oh, my love has gone,
Carried away by the sea,
But, no matter how long,
That I have to wait,
I swear to always wait for thee...