I am actually going to be singing in a virtual concert here on Skool in the "Confident Introverts" community at 12 pm Eastern Time November 21st! I'm going to be singing "one bright star" modified from my choir piece into an acapella solo arrangement <3

It began in the square again — as most curious days in Hatchmere do. The air was crisp, still carrying a touch of autumn’s perfume, and the market hummed with its usual melody of laughter and barter. Miriath sat perched on my shoulder, tail coiled around my braid like a silken ribbon, her eyes wide with delight at all the color and sound. But near the fountain, one musician was struggling. His lute, though well-tuned, gave no joy that day. His notes stumbled; his smile was hollow. A few villagers clapped politely, but the life had gone from the melody — it felt like a song that had lost its reason to be sung. I felt the weight of it too — the heaviness that drifts into hearts during the changing seasons. Some call it tiredness. Others, sorrow. And Miriath, clever creature that she is, noticed. Without a word (not that she listens when I tell her to stay put), she leapt from my shoulder and landed softly by the musician’s feet. He blinked, startled, as she tilted her little head, golden scales catching the light. Then, with a tiny breath, she exhaled a shimmer — not flame, not smoke, but something softer. Like golden dust motes in sunlight. It drifted toward him and dissolved before it touched his skin. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, slowly, his fingers began to move again. The melody found itself. But this time, it wasn’t just a song — it was laughter, warmth, and life itself reborn in sound. The villagers drew closer, smiling. Children twirled. Even the fountain seemed to join in, its splashes keeping time. When the song ended, the musician wiped his eyes and laughed — that deep, unguarded kind of laugh that comes from the soul finally remembering joy. Miriath looked up at me, quite proud of herself. Then she hiccupped, releasing one last puff of golden light that landed squarely on my sleeve and turned my entire arm glittering green. “Careful,” I told her, trying not to smile. “If you keep healing hearts by accident, I’ll have to start charging for concerts.”

I'm so excited that little Choraleaf has grown up so much now! I am thinking of showing off her powers of growing plants through singing at them, to combine the leafy green visage and the singing into a conscious power. What are some suggestions of what might have happened to showcase this skill of choraleaf? She is now a "young dragon" aka, think of a curious child. energetic and enthusiastic, but perhaps over eager. I'm going to work on some music that I feel she sings during this ^_^ but I would love some help on some thoughts, situations, or sparks for the accompanying text or images

A hush steadies the square as Euphina Emberwright steps onto the wooden stage, Choraleaf’s leafy frills trembling with quiet delight. She raises her brass panflute; the first measure glides out, bright as morning on dew. Choraleaf answers, a ribboned hum that threads the melody. When their lines braid—note to note, breath to breath—an unseen bell tolls, not iron but meadow-deep, a tone like rain on seed. Beneath their feet the dusting of pollen hears it. It stirs. Green awakens. Buds pearl along the boards. The crowd gasps as the stage ripples into color—wildflowers racing in sudden bloom, petals brushing Euphina’s boots, twining around Choraleaf’s claws. The dragon trills, delighted at this inadvertent magic; Euphina laughs mid-phrase startled while Choraleaf keeps singing, letting the bell’s echo ride her tune. Children clap; elders wipe surprised tears; someone shouts that the town will need a gardener for the stage. The last note settles, and a butterfly chooses the panflute like a final chord. They bow together—flutist and lyrical dragon—debuting a song newly named: “Verdant Charm.”

A soft mist rolled over the river that morning, curling through the wildflowers and up the stone paths of Hatchmere. The villagers were already stirring — market stalls opening, hatchlings stretching their wings by the nursery hearth — when a gentle fragrance drifted through the square. It smelled of honey, rain-soaked soil, and something else — life itself, waking up. From the bend in the river came a woman leading a small handcart piled high with clay pots and mossy crates. A tiny golden dragon perched atop them, tail flicking lazily. “Mind the mint, Miriath,” the woman murmured, steady voice like wind through grass. “You’ve already singed two leaves today.” She wore a cloak the color of new leaves and carried herself with that unhurried confidence that belongs only to those who understand the rhythm of things — of growth, of patience, of gentle power. Her smile was quiet, but when she looked at the villagers, the world seemed to pause for a heartbeat. “I’m Claralyn,” she said, setting a pot of white blossoms on the edge of the fountain. “But most just call me the BloomMother. I’ve come to tend your herbs, your hatchlings, and perhaps… a few tired hearts.” The golden dragon gave a tiny sneeze, releasing a puff of glittering pollen into the air. The flowers around the fountain unfurled as if waking from a nap. She laughed softly. “Well then,” she said. “I suppose Hatchmere’s soil is ready for a new season.”