FLORA

The winter mother's frigid hand gripped Esperia in a layer of ice, laying waste to animal and plant life. Sheep and cattle froze in the field and the common folk huddled around hearths, picking at the last stores of food and the future crop laying dormant under the earth as if afraid to grow into the world above. In this brutal cold, one sapling dared to brave the fear and frost. As if emboldened by the audacity of life, other green things sprang upward around the tenacious sapling. In an explosion of verdant energy, Flora was born. Where she stepped, life erupted. Despite this power, Flora was not without her doubts.

Celestials are entities of magnificent ability, and subtlety is not common among their kind. Flora watched in awe as her peers performed feats of which she could only dream. It was true that she could do things no mortal could hope to achieve, but against the other celestials she saw herself as weak. A blossom swaying with every gust of cutting wind.

Seeking to emulate the others of her kind, she began to shadow them, hoping to uncover the secrets of their great works. She looked on, terrified, as Athalia vanquished hordes of demons with purifying flames. The violence of her contemporary was more than she could take, and she fled. She sought out Ansiel, the crafter, whose artifacts were of a quality beyond measure. Even his unwavering patience began to wear thin as one device after another fell to pieces under Flora's unskilled hand. She despaired, wondering if she could ever have the impact expected of a living god.

She wandered for a time, lost and alone. Her only company were the two little birds that accompanied her everywhere. "Is this my fate, then? To be a gardener?" The birds chirped back at her. "A fine gardener you could be indeed!" "Yes, if the garden of Dura required a keeper that is!" "Which of course…" "It does not."

One day, she came upon a village. The war had taken many of its most capable. The fields lay fallow, thick with brown weeds. The people who remained sat dejected outside dilapidated homes, weakened by hunger. The smithies were silent, no longer ringing with the strikes of hammers on steel. Oxen and horses had wandered off, seeking greener pastures. Such was the state of disrepair and the apathy of the locals that when a home began to billow smoke, no one reacted. The wails of a child could be heard from inside. Without a thought, Flora raised a hand to the sky, her usually talkative birds suddenly silent.

Thick clouds gathered in an instant, and fat raindrops spilled toward the thirsting land in sheets. The fire in the house was extinguished, a life saved. Where the drops hit the fields, fresh vegetation burst up through the lifeless husks that blanketed the ground. Fruiting trees stood fully formed in a matter of seconds. The rain ran in rivulets over faces turned skyward, seeming to revitalize the villagers, who first stood and then smiled as one for the first time in ages.

Flora had finally found her purpose. In a world that seemed hellbent on death, she would give life.

"This place could do with sprucing up a bit. Some spring cleaning is in order."