Winter's Dying Gasps

[Thaegal Skysong]

Freezing water poured from the angry skies, the warm and merciful sun no where to be seen. The clouds seemed to twist and writhe in the agony or anger of some benevolent deity now subject to such evil enities of the world. Water constantly streamed down the rocky slopes, taking with it the occasional rock or boulder, desperate to cling to it's home. There was no wind. Only the incessant down fall of the element that could give so much, yet take just as much away as well.

The jagged, wet langdscape was barren of apparent life. The occasional mountain hair or cougar, desperate to get out of the freezing shower, darted swiftly about. Water filled every nook and cranny of the mountain it could quickly flooding over and becoming a tributary to the now almost roaring river that was flowing down to the plains below.

The air was almost the grounds equal in perpetual deadness. No songbird sang. No eagle cried. There was only the ever increasing sound of the chorus of the rain, and...

...the faint song of an ever-nearer harp. The faint sound of a singing voice, echoed upon the rain. A winged man flew close to the ground, the source of the beautiful song. His white hair was soaked, turning to gray as the berserking rain made it. His green-blue tunic and trowsers were clinging to his paling skin with the increasing weight of water. The thin rapier shimmered at his side, shimmering with the water passing over it.

Despite the weather and the condition he was in, the traveler still managed to wear a smile. The song he sang was calming, spoken in the elven tongue, and the noise that was born from his harp matched it beautifully as he gently ran his delicate fingers over it's strings. He was glad because Winter's Dying Gasps were here, and the last clutches of this storming spring would not come upon the Silver City or Montagna del Vento, his current destination.

Long he had wandered in the name of the Wind, stopping at times from village to village to spread the music of the sky. The bard had long been happy with this life, but there was something missing. An entity beyond just the Wind itself. Long had he lived in a joyous shell, with a hollow soul.

That was until, he met his grandfather. It was a tragic situation to meet such a relative, for the bards ancestor was in his death nest at the time. For he was a Feather Dragon. Through the sense that all dragons have, he immediately recognized the traveler as kin. When the two discovered their relationship, the ancient dragon asked him to whom he had sworn himself too, the Wind or the Water (as the bard was of both to an extent). When the bard shrugged and told him it was the Wind that suggested paths to fly, the dragon was taken aback.

How could one take Airos so lightly?

When the grandson announced his ignorance on the matter, and inquired who Airos was, the dragon told the bard of his proud orirgins. He spoke of the marvels of the Wind Goddess, and of Montagna del Vento and the noble dragon priests who kept Her lore. Immediately enchanted,the hybrid set out to find this city and know it's secrets. His forefather died with a smile on his face to see such a sight.

Now his song reverted to his own, self-invented song language that mixed Feather Dragon and Elven together, in rememberance of his grandfather. If the old dragon's directions were correct, the city was not far over the mountain, and the traveling bard couldn't wait.

[calisto]

It was not often that Calisto wandered away from the "safe" walls of Denenvera. She was such a timid soul, that even in the threshold of her own home she could not feel utterly safe.
Her fractured mind seemed capable of relating almost every aspect of her life to the terror that had gripped her as a child--revisited old memories constantly and ripping open old wounds that tried vainly to heal.

Calisto was broken, and she knew it; the knowledge only heightened her despair, depressing her almost to a point of no return. She was pitiful and she knew it... changing seemed like a viable option, but every time she tried to struggle past a fear it attacked her, suffocating her--forcing her to retreat. It was an enemy she hadn't the confidence to combat and it was only a matter of time before it found her again.

Yet, that is what brought her outside of Denenvera--into the very depths of a world that threatened her. She needed the freedom, the air, the wilderness. It embodied her fading soul, her depressed spirit, and though her nerves remained with her... it was out here that she was truly reminded of herself--when she felt closest to breaking free of her past. Still, like most dreams it dangled tauntingly out of her reach, eventually leading her back to her small home, back to her confinement.
She never wanted to leave her sense of hope, but there always seemed to be some lurking reminder ready to drag her back into herself.

But for now she was content. The rain had sodden the day, but had not left her bitter. With damp, useless wings, she silently whispered through the hills of the Pericolose. The landscape offered no protection from the rain so she welcomed it rather, and stared with a gentle smile up towards the grey heavens. Water streamed in small, shiny rivulets down the sides of her face, her hair plastered against her skull in long trails of black silk. Her wings were pinched at her sides, but the feathers were wet, ruffled, untidy in appearance--but Anya didn't care.
This was her moment of escape and nothing would ruin it. Temporarily, she had managed to forget about her fears, forget that the world was a corrupt and dangerous places, forget that strangers roamed the hills as often as dear roamed the woods. For but a moment, she was herself.

Meanwhile the wind whipped about her in jubilant sweeps--dragging wet dredlocks across her eyes and plastering them against her neck. It teased her, filling the space beneath her wings coyly before resceding back into the sky--only to return again to carress her face, or chill her skin. The inclement weather made it playful, and she smiled at its antics--also forgetting that it too was a danger. If only she could stay in this mode of carelessness. Why could she never hold on to it? It always slipped away from her, leaving her once again aware to the fear that constantly haunted her memories.

In this case, it was the sound of music that snapped her abruptly back into focus.
Her smile dissapeared in an instant and she tensed readily, her wings shivering gently as the muscled tensed ready to retreat and take flight at the slightest hint of aggression. She knew it was a futile responce. Her water laden sails would not do nothing but weigh her down to the earth, but learned impulses prepared them nonetheless.

Reacting to her sudden change of mind, the Wind dissapeared--leaving her world still and silent... all but that simple song.
It filled her with a sense of tranquility that she accepted, but did not understand. She could not read it as threatening, but she didn't trust it enough to express any particularly strong curiousity, though she did slowly inch towards the edge of a rocky ledge.
Soon the wind would return; it usually brought her secrets with its return--and so it did... weaving her a breif tale of a winged man (much like herself) as being the producer of such angelic hymns.

Thus she was intrigued; his soothing song, added to the strange presence that the freedom and rain had provided her and allowed her relax, slipping into an aware stake of peace that had previously enveloped her. Still keenly aware of danger, she crouched upon the ledge and looked over its crest. Below her, meandering up the slope by slight airial means, was a man. He bore a harp-like instrument from which he strummed his tones, and his hair was the color of white iron. He was alone and did not seem threatening at all.

Still apprehensive she remained silent upon the ridge, trying to remain unnoticed while struggling within herself. Her natural personality lay just under the surface. She could feel it raging, she could feel it nagging and pulling, encouraging her to act as she truly was. But her tension, her fear of a stranger, her fear of the world kept that true personality at bay--leaving her silent, but curious not far above this musical stranger.

[Thaegal Skysong]

The winged bard's hymn began to rise and drop in various sorts, and his crescendo was quite glorious. The half-language in which he sung was in a way like the roar of a lion, prideful and noble, but gruff and dangerous. He felt the dragon blood of Airos flowing powerfully through his vains, pride swelled in him and was released through his song, and he felt not the rain, but only the Wind. But wasn't there no wind but a moment before?

Beneath his soggy white mop-hair, his elven ears twitched slightly. Without pasuing in song or stride, his sharp, hybrid eyes scanned the surrounding landscape. They caught a glimpse of a stone falling from a ridge, towering above a moaning cave. Continuing, as if nothing had happened, the 'feather elf' moved towards that spot.

The rock had shattered upon its already fallen companions, and nothing was truly suspicious about this stone's descent. Bringing his song back to a softer, elven verse, he looked to the sky. He felt a gust of wind that seemed out of place, out of no where, that was mysteriously seeming to head upwards, toward the ridge. Blinking with curiousity, the winged humanoid caught a glimpse of a small shape, fluttering above him.

As his eyes found their focus, he saw what it was. A feather. It stayed in a bizarre standstill, pushed up by the strange wind, yet battered by the murderous rain. Yet the bard's icy eyes stayed on that feather, until the wind subsided, and the rain brought it to him. Picking it up, from the rubble of that shattered stone, he rolled between his wetted fingers. It was beautiful, white as his, white as clouds, white as...

...dragons...

His eyes shot swiftly to the ridge that formed the upper lip of the moaning cave and stared for a short while. Not seeing anything, he stood, and strode humming to the cave, where, after finding it dry, he started a fire.

The blaze was not so much for his own warmth, but it was an unsuspecting beacon, to any visitors he might find upon these rocky slopes.