We feel the heat draining from our warm little hole. The rock no longer pops and burbles at us. Perhaps it was never meant to. Alas, we cannot tarry here. Mother awaits our tales. We leave our place of becoming. It is no longer inviting. Beyond, wonders call to us. Great towering things surround us. We see the movements of their many appendages. So, so many. What are they for? What do they do? Why do they need so many? They sway in rhythmic, hypnotic patterns. Is this a dance? A language? We tear our eyes away from the gentle sway. We hear the slow pulse within them. A pulse we know from Mother. They are alive. It is their life we sense. We call out, hoping to learn. They remain unmoving, silent. Why do they not speak? Surely all things must speak. Yet these remain mute, swaying in unseen breath. Beneath them, smaller things cling to the rock. They too sway in their own way. We hear their life as well. Smaller, quieter, but life. They too ignore our words. What are we to do? They are everywhere. There is no room for flight. We apologize for our rudeness and step forward. They do not complain when we tread upon them. Warmth blossoms where our forearm touches. Flames leap up. Are they angry at us? Their life withers. It ceases. We withdraw, horrified. We have ended something small and innocent. What shall we do? They are everywhere. Silent. Unyielding. Are they here to trap us? We stand frozen. Shaking. Trembling. Uncertain. We have ended life!! Mother will be furious!!!! Yet none of the small things move. The endless swaying continues. The great ones take no notice. What are these things? Are they so crude they care not for destruction? Are they not angered? In our panic, we almost miss it. The rapid beat of life behind us. We turn, slowly, fearing horror. A small brown thing sits, eyeing us. Its hind feet are large. Its forelimbs small and padded. Dark eyes regard us, accusing. Long appendages twitch atop its head. It has come to destroy us. Revenge for its fallen kin.

Choraleaf, inspired by her newfound powers of inspiring growth through song, travelled first to the greenhouse, then to the farm, then to the fields beyond. Euphina followed and played when prompted, and watched as blossoms bloomed before her eyes to the tune. The melody shifted, and then fruit sprouted from the vines - more abundant than could be harvested right away! The green house, and the farm, the orchards and fields all overflowing with produce and in need of extra hands to harvest and to delight in the plethora of plant life. Work to be done, great gains to be gathered and shared with all. With the mangers overflowing with produce, the pigs devouring the feast of peaches, peppers, and parsley, and more plants producing with every panflute parade - a decision was made. A feast was needed to process all this bounty! A council is held - When shall we meet and eat together? (Feel free to come in costume, a much or as little as you can <3 ;) )

Cradling the tiny dragon against my chest, I edged toward the cave mouth, where the cliffside dropped away into a dizzying expanse of wind and sky. The stones beneath my boots shifted, sending me skidding toward the ledge—and before I could even shout, the little dragon let out a startled chirp. His wings, still soft and slightly translucent, snapped open on pure instinct. With a wobbling flutter—and a panicked sneeze that sparked a harmless puff of fire—he pushed against the air, just enough to tug my weight backward. It wasn’t flight… not really. More like a determined flapping that slowed my slide and helped me regain my footing. I pressed a hand to the wall, heart hammering, as he looked up at me proudly, as if he had just saved me. “Good job, little guy,” I whispered, and he trilled, nestling into my arm—already acting like my tiny guardian long before he could truly fly.

We continue to observe the fragile things below. The dead things they hold so dear. Yet meaning eludes us. Their chirps and squawks are indecipherable. We are done watching from afar. We have learned all we can from here. It is not enough to please Mother. So we decide: we must travel closer. We must become. Mother will understand. She will be pleased with Her child and our decision. We race downward from our high vantage. Our descent is rapid. Heat blossoms all around us, playing with us. After so long in the cold, the warmth is welcome. It reminds us of Mother’s embrace — warm, safe, eternal. We hope we will find such comfort below. We streak through the night sky, arcing across the heavens. We delight in the touch of the puffy, immaterial forms we encounter. They scatter before us — frightened, or playful, we cannot tell. They cool us, and then… liquid? Curious. Our path bends toward the dead structures we have watched. We will not reveal ourselves yet. We know not their intent. Slowing… slowing… Here, within this massive clump of immobile, gently waving things, we will stop. ** TTHHOOOOMM!! ** The soft rock heaves beneath us, sorely wounded. Fragments of it flee from us at alarming speeds; they do not concern us. WARMTH! Warmth almost like Mother’s! For a span, we delight in such. But our work must begin, or Mother shall be displeased. ** From the inferno comes sound: ** ** Quiet clicking at first. ** ** Metal scraping stone. ** ** Flames roaring. ** ** Metal striking metal. ** ** Movement. ** ** A form rises. ** We are here. Your child is ready, Mother.

Patient as painting, I stay still as the jeweler retrieves the embellished gold collar with inlaid rubies from my neck. We are professionals even if he takes longer than he should. It's a simple clasp but I can't get it myself. He inspects it with the glass on his face. When he's satisfied it isn't damaged, I'm paid my share of commission coins. My claws knead at the delightful clinking and rich metallic smell of coin. They inspire joy - as Mother might say. I offer gratitude as he suggests what I could display tomorrow. Sounds like he wants to see if I can handle something more intricate and delicate. Oh, I can handle anything! Even if it's not to my liking, I make it look good. I actually liked that collar and might encourage him to let me model it again. Wish I could get it. It's tempting to ask Mother to buy it for me but I don't know if she has enough gold today. And I don't think she'd pick clothes over dinner. Maybe I have enough coin but Mother doesn't want me to spend any of it! Well, I spent a little for a celebration feast of my successful business arrangements. But now Mother just wants me to hold onto my coins and keep them safe. SHE wants to buy everything for us! It's MY coin! I should spend it! I can't find it in my heart to go against her but I don't have to like cooperating. I see Mother at her pretend-stall-of-a-crate calling to the crowd offering her lost wishes. Her constant smile sharp, her voice inviting, her eyes observing, her ears swiveling, and her energetic gestures exaggerated. When she spots me, her expression softens into genuine fondness her smile more sincere. She motions me over but I don't want to! I've been working the market all day and I'm clearly big enough to be by myself! Besides, it's not like my presence increases business there. Mother's ears draw back and I can sense her worrying. I just want to explore! I hate that I'm pleading for SOME independence. Doesn't she want me to find a safe place to keep it? She's not fully convinced but then she smiles and winks at me. I'm allowed to venture on my own! Finally!