For a time, it was Harvest. A time for warm songs and cold brew, dramas played upon the stage, inebriated capering and laughter. Maybe old Neroy will make his own scene atop the dining in the Great Wing, drunken swaying and broken wailing bringing cries of hilarity, outrage, dismay, and concern all at once. He smiled. Times were well, afore the Ice.
Jacoby looked once more across the Eastern Sea. The morning star sat a handbreadth above where sea and sky collide. The waves had calmed, the ocean a vast, shimmering lake of jade. Again he drew breath and the fragrance of life tinged with death filled his chest. It’s all so peaceful, Jacoby mused.
A gust blew from the south.
Jacoby turned right, spinning until he faced the wind. He saw naught but his homelands, the thickets of determined wood and rugged terrain which sloped downwards towards the base of Eaglerock. Trees hampered Jacoby’s vantage, yet he knew Eaglerock was the southernmost Pyruvan Mount.
Most said the forest fell away at its base to planes of grass as far as one could view. Songs hinted of the Southron Fields, rolling knolls and vales of endless verdantry. Wild beasts claimed the Fields, bulls with gargantuan horns, stallions with mane as long as rivers, colossal oxen that could block out midday light for miles around.
The prospect of such wildlife infused Jacoby with electric thew, his heart hammered, rattling its ribcage like an unforgiving cell which barred its southwards soar. For half an instant, he almost heard the clapping of hooves, a neigh piercing through the quiet morning beckoning adventure, glory, a place in tales of minstrels. Alone on his secluded perch, Jacoby dreamed a hero's life.
He turned towards the Nest. These cliffside fancies serve me no good.