Chapter One - Sirens.1Mature

          Light peeked blithely over the eastern horizon. Pink streams seeped into the violet sky, dimming the stars and announcing the rise of the sun. Soon clouds were ablaze, every bead of dew tinted a fierce orange. The Pyruvan Peaks stretched to the north, snowcaps of glistening bronze stabbing the radiant firmament.  

          Twittering of birds mingled playfully with echoes of tumbling waves below the face of the cliff. Jacoby closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, deep breath of the salty shore tinged with the loamy fragrance of decaying leaves. A subtle breeze kissed his cheek, tousled unkempt locks of blonde. Is there aught more lovely to behold than the meeting of Mountain and Sea? 

          Eaglerock during Harvest was a sight to bring awe to any heart. Clusters of tall, slender aspens and cottonwoods mottled the mountain, milk-white bark offset by leaves splashed with shades of scarlet and amber. Deep and shallow streams shimmied down the face of the rock, snappers hopping into the air, glinting a silver sheen. And the sea, thousands of feet below, rocked her ceaseless dance beneath a rising dawn, bathed in white-gold as the fiery orb finally breaks above the end of the world.

           Wind danced listlessly through the trees, rustling the leaves with an ethereal whisper, a solemn hush for silence. With each step, Jacoby savored the prickly, dry sensation of fallen foliage crunching beneath bare feet, curling his toes deep into the soil, relishing in the moist refreshment of the land.

          The young chirps and old beaks of the Nest would likely be starting their preparations by now; Harvest Feast was a quarter-moon away and the days were only shortening. Sunrise to moonrise the Nest bustled of late, raising pavilions, tuning instruments, brandishing pottery, rehearsing poetry, stitching festive garments in the hues of Harvest. Children were set to collecting from the gardenpatches, the elderly prepared their grandest tales.

             The members of Council would assure at least a fifth’s yield was set aside, maybe even a quarter. Last Ice Season was especially harsh, storm after storm plagued the mount. Crop failed and births of babe and foal, yet the Nest withheld against the gales and avalanches of the gods of cold. The Ice would come. It would pass.

The End

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