The storm has separated the calf from its mother, the storm one in space and time. Echoes of lightning flash, their energy thousands of years old, and the air smells of humidity and decades gone by. This is a truth that the fae know that Amalia does not; the sky has always been home to the starwhales, but they swim in time, not necessarily in space. Storms like these are the bain of their existence, tossing them through seas of years that glide by them like so much disturbed water.
Eventually, though the voice of the mother is strong, it dissipates across the centuries that now separate it from its child, the storm a blight in the midst of their travels.
Below it hears the singing. It knows the song is not made by its kind, but it recognizes the emotive cadence of it and instead of falling, it begins to swim in earnest down towards the ground.
Towards the pit.
Towards Amalia.
Eventually, though the voice of the mother is strong, it dissipates across the centuries that now separate it from its child, the storm a blight in the midst of their travels.
Below it hears the singing. It knows the song is not made by its kind, but it recognizes the emotive cadence of it and instead of falling, it begins to swim in earnest down towards the ground.
Towards the pit.
Towards Amalia.
