It rustles through the branches, sweeps arias across the greenery on its way, dancing and darting onto treetops and rooftops alike, fluttering through the golden-green of newborn leaves. There is a song carried on its wings, whispers of secrets and echoes of storms barely seen, far off in the distance.
They watch it by the swooping motion in the trees, the bow of branches and green roof tiles that peek through the endless circle of leaves. When it comes higher, dashes through the tallest branches of the tallest tree, they are prepared for it, and as the bark creaks and groans and laughs along with its far-too-old voices to the youthfulness of the breeze, a smile stretches across their lips.
Their feet dangle over nothingness, a sheer drop that should be a threat but is nothing more than a comfort, a warmth that beats in their heart. Without flight, this is the best they can do to feel it-- to feel as close to the clouds and the moons above, and they drink it in, as if it were a home. The wind soars on its way down, unruly and unrepentant, and the branch they'd been on wavers, creaking and cracking, and they chuckle, more amused than scared.
Underneath them, children are swooping and laughing with the fickle breeze, their arms spread wide to welcome it as they twirl over the cobblestones. They spin in colours the grim cloud shouldn't be allowing, bright as jeweled-winged butterflies. Parents nearby are removing the last vestiges of the morning markets, the propped stalls folding back and out of the plaza and to the nearby guilds.
They have to go. Little clusters of tasks that need to be done sets them back on their feet, unwary of the wavering branches about them. The wind tosses them a goodbye as they amble closer to the trunk, as surefooted along these narrow pathways as if they were on solid ground, arms stretched on either sides, just to feel the brush of leaves against their clothes.
Leaves turn to trinkets-- beads of glass and wooden carved ornaments that they brush aside, followed with ribbons of colours and snapped lyre strings. Clusters of feathers dipped in precious silver flutter alongside a carved wooden ring worn by an incredible age, next to a bundle of flowers pressed in dragonglass.
There are so many more of these nowadays; filling the Naming Tree with the presence of lost ones, but they're quite glad that it is. They wish these people well, wish them restful years before they are picked to be a child's guardian spirit, wish them safe travels to the center of the world before they are reforged into being. Hopes that the world will be kind to them when they return.
At the trunk, they leap, fearless and used to this, and so begin their slow descent, branch to branch, jump to jump, as they make their way back down.
First memory - Last twenty-four hours
It rustles through the branches, sweeps arias across the greenery on its way, dancing and darting onto treetops and rooftops alike, fluttering through the golden-green of newborn leaves. There is a song carried on its wings, whispers of secrets and echoes of storms barely seen, far off in the distance.
They watch it by the swooping motion in the trees, the bow of branches and green roof tiles that peek through the endless circle of leaves. When it comes higher, dashes through the tallest branches of the tallest tree, they are prepared for it, and as the bark creaks and groans and laughs along with its far-too-old voices to the youthfulness of the breeze, a smile stretches across their lips.
Their feet dangle over nothingness, a sheer drop that should be a threat but is nothing more than a comfort, a warmth that beats in their heart. Without flight, this is the best they can do to feel it-- to feel as close to the clouds and the moons above, and they drink it in, as if it were a home. The wind soars on its way down, unruly and unrepentant, and the branch they'd been on wavers, creaking and cracking, and they chuckle, more amused than scared.
Underneath them, children are swooping and laughing with the fickle breeze, their arms spread wide to welcome it as they twirl over the cobblestones. They spin in colours the grim cloud shouldn't be allowing, bright as jeweled-winged butterflies. Parents nearby are removing the last vestiges of the morning markets, the propped stalls folding back and out of the plaza and to the nearby guilds.
They have to go. Little clusters of tasks that need to be done sets them back on their feet, unwary of the wavering branches about them. The wind tosses them a goodbye as they amble closer to the trunk, as surefooted along these narrow pathways as if they were on solid ground, arms stretched on either sides, just to feel the brush of leaves against their clothes.
Leaves turn to trinkets-- beads of glass and wooden carved ornaments that they brush aside, followed with ribbons of colours and snapped lyre strings. Clusters of feathers dipped in precious silver flutter alongside a carved wooden ring worn by an incredible age, next to a bundle of flowers pressed in dragonglass.
There are so many more of these nowadays; filling the Naming Tree with the presence of lost ones, but they're quite glad that it is. They wish these people well, wish them restful years before they are picked to be a child's guardian spirit, wish them safe travels to the center of the world before they are reforged into being. Hopes that the world will be kind to them when they return.
At the trunk, they leap, fearless and used to this, and so begin their slow descent, branch to branch, jump to jump, as they make their way back down.