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16 lines
1.0 KiB
Plaintext
16 lines
1.0 KiB
Plaintext
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A feather of a bird of prey that did not originally belong in the winter chill. It is cold to the touch.
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And when you do touch it, it is as if you can hear cries in the snowstorm, unbowed but bereft of hope.
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With no nest or shelter, the bird faced the storms proudly.
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This feather has been assailed with coalescing ice and snow, leaving it coated in pearls of frost.
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It once came from a falcon in flight and was plucked violently from that bird by the frigid winds.
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It drifted a while in the air before the weight of the frost dragged it back down to the ground.
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"I believe that the lively birds will follow you, and return to the gardens of the summer palace, now green once more."
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"Those who have been chased away by the chilling tide, and those children who have lost their homes, they will return with you to the home of their dreams."
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The hero, bearing such great burdens on his back, halted in the whipping snow, struggling to discern the color of that feather.
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Sealed in ice, that feather's color faded every step of the way — just like the hero's task.
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