And fly to the skies from your land
Through the window, a golden light spills and puddles on the floor, pours over the mussed blankets of the bed. Dust motes glimmer, a handful of fine-powered mica tossed into the air. Sunrises are stunning in the Greatwood, all those brilliant rays bursting through the trees and their Flowerbirth leaves. Sunrises are so quiet, so calm, that it’s a favorite time of day—only preceded by the magic of the stars. From where I sit on the edge of the bed, I stare out the window a moment longer before I turn to my jacket, slung over a chair.
I’d finally managed to find a place to stay for the night, but I wasn’t keen on overstaying my welcome. My jacket is on, my things gathered, and I pull socks on to creep down the stairs—don’t want to wake anyone in the little bed and breakfast. I wait until I’m outside in the dim light of dawn to stuff my feet in my boots, then hop down the steps with my bag slung over one shoulder. I haul in a deep breath, and it curls into a puffy cloud as I exhale into the morning’s chill.
Another day of asking around for odd jobs. I've done a few now, and I’ve got some funds, just not enough to get on an airship. I’ve traversed vast distances before, but never alone—flying is certainly my best option. I try not to frown, try not to catastrophize and convince myself it’s impossible. It isn’t.
I turn my attention to the skyship port, slipping the strap of my bag over my shoulder. The rising sun peaks out from behind a skyship, and I lean my shoulder against a lamppost, arms crossing to admire it until I get hungry enough for breakfast. Or torment myself with it. Maybe both.
The land that you love and all that you are
