Prompt by Marquita M. (Twitter: @mnemescat)
— ‘The first thing you notice is her tattoos: tropical flowers floating on an ocean, stars in a galaxy, and soft winged shapes circling in a sky. The tattoos look like all of these, but they are not. Like delicate lacework or climbing flowering vines, the pattern’s details and subtle colors among the brilliant illustrations are not truly appreciated until you look closely. But you will not know that at this first meeting. She noticed your approach long before you saw her, and you suddenly realize that her beautiful gray eyes twinkle with silent laughter at your startled expression.

All of your assumptions about what she would be like are dissolving like morning mist in the sun. They said she was old, dangerous, and a mother, that she came from the hot southern lands or maybe the far western islands, that she did not tolerate fools, that the colors were gone, that the song was the last gift she had… They were right about all of it, but also completely wrong. Her matronly curves, the glints of silver in her dark reddish hair, and the lines of grief and joy etched into her features do not diminish her all-too-human beauty.

As you take a moment to gather your courage, you appreciate the spot she chose. She is sitting on a stone at the base of a towering conifer tree, or maybe an oak. You’re not good at telling such things apart. Her posture is casual, but she is somehow also very alert to her surroundings. The forest is almost cozy, softly lit with the occasional sunbeam. The ground beneath the trees is a rich, deep carpet of moss broken only by small islands of meadow grass and a surprising variety of wildflowers. The tabby cat beside her is a warm creamy color, and his eyes are a lovely peridot, sparkling with unexpected intelligence.

If it were not for her iridescent dragonfly-like wings or the fact that she and the housecat would be of a height if they were standing, you could almost mistake her for one of the women from the village. Almost.’