Sawtooth Spire i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness

Lost in translation, lost in language;
the marred yet stoic virago kindly educating the young skarp on her mother tongue. Wedged in the needle-like foyer in his mind did memories surface one by one, like sodden corpses of overboard stowaways in an ocean of sun-filled remembrance!
the chicken-scratch blur film whirred like clockwork ... his pillar, his mater, his nurse, murmuring an open-air serenade not from under the window of her lover — but to the warbling cowbird greedily hugging her teet. It wasn't Praimfaya's language, but it was theirs. A mismatched melody of teary cries, maternal whispers ...

But she had left them, letting their language die out forever unknown in the history texts. 

Summoning himself to present day Praimfaya, Astraeus cocks his head quizzically. Maybe a liddle bid ..., he thought despite what he was told. So when prompted about his chosen trades, Astraeus took it like an order. If it meant being flashy and strong (what a prince should be, of course!) then it was for him. 

The star-imp vigourously nodded his bobble-head far to great for his leggy body. "can i haf dese when i do da warrior?" he skidded downwards of the greater's shoulders, motioning his small peets considerately on the right. Four marks that writ a saga greater than he could understand.