The winds tear through the city as winter spirits long gone return to take their place. The day is bleak and the twilight is unending. The skyscrapers that exist within the mirror realm are here, but they are encased with webs, spun by countless drones mimicking their mothers design. They calcify all that wander too close to their webs encasing the smaller spirits of glass and plastic so new to this world. Here is the city, Sanfield, but a twisted reflection of it. No man walks these streets, but life thrives here.

A solitary bird black as night crests over a rise gliding upon umbral winds it can not feel. It flies because its reflection does, because everyone thinks they fly. It is another strange reflection of our worlds ideas and dreams. It soars through the urban landscape watching below for any sign of prey. It sight is not what it once was, now it relies more on smell then anything else.

It flies high within the webs, finally deciding upon a perch from which to watch the city. It is unfamiliar, but knows this place. It was told many things whispered secrets in a land far from here. It took some time, but it is here now and it has patience. It cranes its bare neck and head, its shoulders sprouting black feathers like some strange bola before they keel themselves and continue on its body.

It can feel her, it knows she is near. It will wait, time must be savored this it knows. Anything that waits and watches animals through their lives know the value of patience. It only hopes she is prepared for the challenges that await her.  

--Last edited by Mnemon on 2008-12-14 23:05:34 --

With the wing span of four foot, the raven is smaller than many things in this place and quite larger than others. It soars through the sky, dropping from wind current to wind current. Accelerating speeds alternate with lazy spirals. There's no particular direction that the bird intends on going. There's no purpose other than to flex wings and muscles that it does not have in any other form. Besides, who wouldn't just fly for the sake of flying if they had wings? Its quite hard to sit still once you have feathers and can take to the sky. Watching the sky from a birds eye is a gift and an eye opener. Its so different from the heavens.

Lunes, little balls of light and flexible ribbons flit through the air when the bird rushes through a ray of moonlight. Its a playful little dance, of dart and weave and doubling back. Of thrown out feathers, ruffled and startled, and soundless glee from things that are all spirit and whimsical dreams. These spirit light the paths that move from one realm onto another, its their glow that helps navigate through the reflections of worlds that some say are all spiritual, but when one is there it feels as real as the prick of a needle on the tip of ones finger, and as real as the blood that will well up and form a growing drop on the tip. The beings of birds and people know these landscapes well and through their knowledge understand the importance of maintaining good relations with those that inhabit it. But not all things must be as serious as the Red Star that spreads gloom beneath its gaze. There are times like this, where the spirit must be set free and able to soar as high as the clouds in a reflective sky.

Dive and tumble.
All things must come to an end, even if temporary.

With a squawk to companions, the bird leaves them to their games, and parts ways to fly for the city towers that looms in the distance. It distances itself from the trees over the mountains, where the Wyld struggles to free from paved roads and the sticky strands of power-lines that zap bright sparks, couriering data from one place to another. Dodging corners, skipping shadows, the bird climbs higher into the sky once it has hit the streets of Sanfield. Up out of the grime, strong wings beat back wind and glittery eyes soak in all. Clearing the edge of one of the tallest buildings, the bird stays clear of the spiders working tirelessly below; they ever present and growing stronger by the days, and perches up the edge to catch a moments rest. With a last stretch of wings, and a fluttering heartbeat, the bird folds back the feathers and claws the concrete below.

From where they were, perhaps even opposite ends of the city, two black birds sat. And from there they could view the world.  

--Last edited by Lilah Rove on 2009-01-11 04:12:30 --