Myths of the Midnight Geisha by Sumiko-Nakano on DeviantArt (original) (raw)

Beneath a tempestuous sky, in a forgotten alley that slithers through the heart of an ancient city, a solitary figure appears as though materialized from the very mists that haunt these timeworn streets. She is an apparition, an embodiment of the city’s hidden tales, draped in a kimono that blooms with the colors of life that once was – the reds of passion, the greens of growth, all now subdued under the veil of the unceasing rain.

Her face is a canvas of melancholic beauty, white as the moonlit snow, with crimson lips that hint at a frozen scream or a silent serenade, one can't be certain. Her eyes are like twin black holes, deep and fathomless, rimmed with the weight of her spectral existence. The elaborate kanzashi pins in her hair are not mere adornments but storied relics that seem to pierce through the veil of time, each one a keeper of whispered legacies.

Around her, the rain falls in a relentless cadence, a symphony composed by the weeping heavens. It casts a sheen over the cobblestones, which glisten like scales of some great serpentine creature winding through the alley. The downpour bathes her, yet her figure remains untouched by its warmth; instead, the droplets cascade down her form in rivulets of liquid silver, tracing the outline of her being, mingling with the tears that one cannot see but knows are there.

This alley, with its lanterns swinging like hanged souls from another age, flickers with a glow that casts a halo around her. Their light is a beacon for the phantoms of the past, each flame a sentinel warding off the encroaching shadows that threaten to consume her form. The wooden walls of the surrounding buildings are soaked through, darkened by the rain to the color of old blood, and they lean inwards as if to whisper secrets or to suffocate.

Her presence here is a tale untold, a secret wrapped in silence. Some say she is the lost mistress of a samurai, others, a priestess cursed by the gods. But the truth is locked within her, as enigmatic as the patterns of her kimono. Each night, she stands sentinel, a guardian of memories best left undisturbed, a bridge between the living and the spectral, between the now and the evermore.

She is the mistress of rain, a sorrowful deity that commands the skies to weep, her tale woven into the fabric of the city, as inseparable from it as the rain that falls, as the darkness that waits, as the silence that watches. Her story is one of love, loss, and the eternal dance of death. It is whispered that to look upon her is to see into the heart of the city itself – beautiful, eternal, and forever shrouded in the mystery of the rain-soaked night.