Noah
Crooked souls trying to stay up straight
Dry eyes in the pouring rain
Dry eyes in the pouring rain
Using his compass, Noah let the pull of its magic send him across the world, snapping him from Halo’s frost to the thin air of Stormbreak. The city spread beneath him in its ordered sprawl, white stone and gilded towers gleaming beneath the waning sun. He wasted little time among its streets. His wings stretched wide, catching the air as he let the currents carry him. The flight was brief, the Celestine rising below, a sanctuary of green and bloom nestled within the city’s heart. Noah's heart softened with its familiarity.
Wings tilted and his talons touched earth, and then he was a man again. The attuned's boots pressed the well-worn paths, the memory of his feet retracing steps he had walked before. He followed the winding way until the shrines stood before him, pale stone catching the light, carved into the likeness of the god he had pledged himself to. At the feet of Vi’s shrine, Noah bowed his head. His prayer was wordless, carried in the stillness of his thoughts: gratitude for mercy, for strength, for the gift of continuing to endure when so much had been taken. The silence lingered, weighty and familiar. When at last he straightened, he laid his offering at the base of the shrine—spiced mulled wine, its steam curling faintly in the air, and a loaf of bread still soft from the oven. Simple, humble gifts, but given with sincerity.
Sitting back on his heels, Noah pulled a notebook from his pocket. He wrote down a few things he noticed about the shrine for Vi. He wrote about the flowers that bloomed at the feet of the statue, of the way the water that flowed around and behind it seemed cleaner and brighter than the rest. He wrote, too, about Vi's features. Standing, Noah looked at the statue before him with glacier eyes, taking in the way the cold stone represented the god of life in truth, and jotted it down. But, the shrine bore the traces of time and weather: fallen petals, windblown debris, the small neglect of days. Putting his notebook away, he started clearing out some of the debris from the base of the statue.
Wings tilted and his talons touched earth, and then he was a man again. The attuned's boots pressed the well-worn paths, the memory of his feet retracing steps he had walked before. He followed the winding way until the shrines stood before him, pale stone catching the light, carved into the likeness of the god he had pledged himself to. At the feet of Vi’s shrine, Noah bowed his head. His prayer was wordless, carried in the stillness of his thoughts: gratitude for mercy, for strength, for the gift of continuing to endure when so much had been taken. The silence lingered, weighty and familiar. When at last he straightened, he laid his offering at the base of the shrine—spiced mulled wine, its steam curling faintly in the air, and a loaf of bread still soft from the oven. Simple, humble gifts, but given with sincerity.
Sitting back on his heels, Noah pulled a notebook from his pocket. He wrote down a few things he noticed about the shrine for Vi. He wrote about the flowers that bloomed at the feet of the statue, of the way the water that flowed around and behind it seemed cleaner and brighter than the rest. He wrote, too, about Vi's features. Standing, Noah looked at the statue before him with glacier eyes, taking in the way the cold stone represented the god of life in truth, and jotted it down. But, the shrine bore the traces of time and weather: fallen petals, windblown debris, the small neglect of days. Putting his notebook away, he started clearing out some of the debris from the base of the statue.
While the shadow proves the sunshine
