the first fae, she's checked into the room on the lowest level, the closest to the roots of the hotel. terra usually sleeps beneath the softened soil of the forest floor, with the burrowing hedgehogs digging for the velvet pink soda worms that only come up when the blue clouds above spill their sadness into the forest below.
she's got skin darker than the midnight hours during which she surfaces to cherish the sunless forest, and brown silken corkscrews that fall between her shoulder blades denser than the packed dirt she sleeps beneath. a flowery green sundress loops around her languid frame, like vine climbing the limbs of a tree.
her hotel room's got softened purple wallpaper like bleached petunia petals, and fragrant glass vases filled with water and moon drop lavender petals. there's no windows down here, only the artificial lights cradled in waxy lanterns clinging to the smooth of the ceiling by cocoon silk.
the bedspreads are byzantium and sparkle dull plum and smell like the first spring bite, crisp and sharp and tangy like crumbled moss between amaranthine fingers.
terra only stays in the lowest rooms available, close enough to the earth's core hear the whispering of baby roots delving into the soil searching for an underground oasis. at the break of spring she sprinkles handfuls of crushed beetle wings to feed the ground and it opens like the palm of a lily and drowns in the soft silken singing of the dirt fae.
when she's in her earthen home terra blasts velvety jazz from a brass tube from her house into the soil, and the worms thrive joyfully and beat a rain chant that echo upwards towards the heavens where zephyr sleeps deeply among the clouds.
