05-15-2018, 04:47 PM
I do not frequently have the chance to use my wings in the close forests of Sylva. The open sea offers challenges (the winds here are unpredictable) but I arrive on the southwestern coast of the main island with minimal ado. I had felt the increasing temperatures as I crossed the shallow sea, but I find that as I pull my white and navy wings to my sides that it is almost uncomfortably warm here even in the dead of winter. My experience with other lands is minimal, and I wonder if perhaps there are kingdoms trapped perpetually in spring and winter the way that Sylva seems trapped in fall and Ischia in the dead of summer.
I wade into the water in an effort to cool off, but there is a smell to the clear waves that suggest that this is not good water to drink. I trust my instincts, and the memory of drinking from a saltwater pool as a child in Loess. Perhaps whoever comes to greet me will be willing to share the location of fresh water with which to slake my thirst.
With that in mind I raise my head to call out, a clear cry to anyone within hearing distance.
I wade into the water in an effort to cool off, but there is a smell to the clear waves that suggest that this is not good water to drink. I trust my instincts, and the memory of drinking from a saltwater pool as a child in Loess. Perhaps whoever comes to greet me will be willing to share the location of fresh water with which to slake my thirst.
With that in mind I raise my head to call out, a clear cry to anyone within hearing distance.
