Phoenix Maplewood The wind and I, we speak the same.

Lysandar departed the glacier for the southern woods. These, too, bore the unmistakeable stain of red. And these too, left him airy and light footed. Like he might almost float away, even though their canopies boughed around him. Maybe he could fly — but he could, would he want to? The gold bloods ran on feathered feet, and they laughed. If he flew, would he laugh or throw up? Ha! Yeah, throw up. That was more likely.

The shadow of a stranger grounded him. Silvered, and beginning to line with age. Her eyes, that same hue of red. The colour followed him wherever he turned.

— but he would not think on this today.

A low chuff and a slow wave of his tail. The ruddy boy still did not know what kind of people these Wilds held — though he had heard their rumours.