Rowling
Spring. Birds and flowers dot the Dale and grass sprouts fresh and green and bright in the meadows. The blue yearling enjoys the smells to accompany the season, perfumed and bright as the sun but he knows it already. Least, he thinks he does. The Dale has been abundant in life as far as the change in the world goes. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. He’s had an eye full of what the changes hold here and he learns many things from Mother but he doesn’t learn much about elsewhere. You know, the great big wide world of Beqanna?
That’s fine though, he’s a big boy, well big enough he thinks. Big enough for what? Travel.
Today is the day then, and he whisks himself away from the comfort and safety of the mountain region. He’s seen Mother do this plenty, mask himself as a blizzard of snow and whirl about the Dale like a tornado of ice. It’s easy enough, then again he had practiced it a few days before, taking to the cover of the forest for secrecy. Rowling was Weir’s boy but there was a smidge of Warship in their too, perhaps that part where he didn’t always listen to the rules. Surely he could recall once or twice when Mother had said to stay in the Dale unless accompanied by an adult. Mother worried too much.
It’s tickly to be a blizzard, you kind of turn into a million little pieces and scatter about. Up is Down and Down is Up- it can be quite disconcerting. Rowling tumbles east first, scattering off course before he turns himself North, up up and up through Beqanna like a slingshot. He’s going so fast he hardly see where exactly he is aimed but he can feel the cold coming from something besides himself. It is a big cold too, and at first he thinks it is Mother, out to catch him before he has had any fun. It isn’t him though, not at all, it isn't even a horse actually- it is a place. A big, cold place, and he stops his feverish flight turning himself to ice now instead.
The wall looms before him, bigger than anything he has seen besides the cradle of the Dale’s mountain ranges. Wow, he thinks, craning his head upwards but he can not see the top even though he tries to. The door is nowhere in sight from here either, so instead of looking for one Rowling finds his own way in. Something awesome was on the other side right? Ice wouldn’t work though, snow would do and with that thought he is snow and burrows beneath the wall until he finds he can push up from the ground on the other side. Just a head pokes out from the drifts, turning this way and that, little ears bending to and fro but not because he is listening, it’s because he is excited.
With a spring he launches his snow self from the frigid ground, flakes bursting into the air around him and falling inconspicuously back in their places. With a shake he frees himself of his snow coat, being that of a boy now, a blue roan boy who dances across the Tundra in delight.
That’s fine though, he’s a big boy, well big enough he thinks. Big enough for what? Travel.
Today is the day then, and he whisks himself away from the comfort and safety of the mountain region. He’s seen Mother do this plenty, mask himself as a blizzard of snow and whirl about the Dale like a tornado of ice. It’s easy enough, then again he had practiced it a few days before, taking to the cover of the forest for secrecy. Rowling was Weir’s boy but there was a smidge of Warship in their too, perhaps that part where he didn’t always listen to the rules. Surely he could recall once or twice when Mother had said to stay in the Dale unless accompanied by an adult. Mother worried too much.
It’s tickly to be a blizzard, you kind of turn into a million little pieces and scatter about. Up is Down and Down is Up- it can be quite disconcerting. Rowling tumbles east first, scattering off course before he turns himself North, up up and up through Beqanna like a slingshot. He’s going so fast he hardly see where exactly he is aimed but he can feel the cold coming from something besides himself. It is a big cold too, and at first he thinks it is Mother, out to catch him before he has had any fun. It isn’t him though, not at all, it isn't even a horse actually- it is a place. A big, cold place, and he stops his feverish flight turning himself to ice now instead.
The wall looms before him, bigger than anything he has seen besides the cradle of the Dale’s mountain ranges. Wow, he thinks, craning his head upwards but he can not see the top even though he tries to. The door is nowhere in sight from here either, so instead of looking for one Rowling finds his own way in. Something awesome was on the other side right? Ice wouldn’t work though, snow would do and with that thought he is snow and burrows beneath the wall until he finds he can push up from the ground on the other side. Just a head pokes out from the drifts, turning this way and that, little ears bending to and fro but not because he is listening, it’s because he is excited.
With a spring he launches his snow self from the frigid ground, flakes bursting into the air around him and falling inconspicuously back in their places. With a shake he frees himself of his snow coat, being that of a boy now, a blue roan boy who dances across the Tundra in delight.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
