The southern lands make home to the widest of the grassland known to those who walk. Expanding from the Rampant River and the Forest of Ire, to the broken crags of mountains of the Southwest, it separates the nations of the Morning folk and the birthland of those with wide eyes. The empty plainlands serve not only an effective border, but they provide a wonder of a flatland. For those caravans so prepared, it is the easiest road of travel. Many roadways patched this land in intervals of a few weeks travel. Though the traveller's roads are smooth, the land's god offered no mercies to those unprepared. She is an erect mistress whose tall form gives her an aura of dominion fitting of the expanse of the kingdom she watched. Her hair is the color of the earth laced with the golden grasses she grew. Her cloaks are threaded from the fields she guards, woven from the brightest blades gathered from the plain; their fabric like the softest down of the land's native fliers.
Summer months bid flocks to gather here offering a feast from the seeds of grain. Little downy thrushes flitter above and through the maze of grass, gayly chipping and twitting to each other. It was these months that beckon young fliers to join the thrushes and create their own adventures. A nimble form makes its way over the endless golden sea, passing over the land, and lacking mind to anything other than the rushing air around it. The large shadow it casts beneath sends the chitlings and round-eared scurriers away to hide beneath the grass. Such a figure cast its darkened form over a patch of burnt land, circling once before flying out and away from the plain goddess' sight.
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Sylphs
FantasyThis story is written a bit differently than most. There are no names, and there is no dialogue. A young man awakes alone on the charred earth to find nothing remaining but his person. With no memory of who he was, or of the world around him, he fo...
