With a surprisingly considerable effort, I found an ideal spot for the formidable brawny griffin to nd, without damaging the pristine nature-made garden.

  Leaves did scatter around us, purple grass and flowers swayed heavily in the bsts of strong winds made by the griffin's wings when we nded. But overall, the valley remained undisturbed.

  In little less than a full day of hard flying south, Toranos managed to traverse almost a quarter of Western Equiya, putting some falcons to shame. This griffin is among the fastest of Winged and more importantly, an old friend who lent me his wings for over a century and a half.

  Toranos has the body, tail, and hind legs of a bck lion, and trunk-crushing, golden-brown, scaly feet that end in wicked, bck talons of the deepest abyss. The noble white head of an eagle pleasingly contrasts the rest of his caliginous features. Unlike many other mounts, Toranos has no reins. My thoughts flow to him and he becomes an extension of my will—granted, I command direction, but Toranos commands the gales.

  With impeccable instinct, the griffin felt the slow and fast air currents, making us travel nimbly, and in shallow arcs.

  The reasons I chose it to be my wings were not just its might and speed but mainly its artistry in reading the winds. This magnificent creature doesn't just fly, it loves flying. Passion and love for something you're already good at can make you a crackajack for others to gaze upon and marvel.

  However, on the way back to Vantium winds might be against us, making for a much longer trip.

  I pat the griffin's neck and it soon lies on his rotund belly while neatly furling wide dark-brown wings for a well-earned rest.

  I turn to bathe my eyes with the beauty that surrounds me. Nobody knows of this pce.

  The small valley is snuggled within the Xanadu mountain range, with the modest river cutting through it. The name of the river is long forgotten, there are no surviving maps that even feature it. Blue lotus adorns and outlines the flow, hugging the nearby banks.

  The air feels different here. Silky, pure...untouched and forgotten.

  The valley is lush with purple grass, dark-red ferns, clusters of star jasmine, a hidden amaranth or two, some cattails, lupines, a few willows along the banks, and scores of cherry trees—with scant fruit but dense purplish...leaves. Star jasmine climbs up the trunks of the cherry trees, beautifying them with a fat bnket made of white flowers and small, glossy, egg-shaped, purple leaves attached to brown stems.

  The small river whispers. Its gentle babble and spshing reverberate throughout the dale. Even the short cascade has a pleasingly low murmur to it. Although, my aural manipution pys a part here.

  In theory, I could spend years without sleeping. My research and uncovering of lost knowledge consumes most of my time and these are rare and cherished moments I get to spend with my creations that chose to wander the wild.

  Crystalborn felt my presence and were already partly gathered as I neared this pce. The southern city of Vedenemo is designed specifically with water-dwelling kindred in mind, still, about a tenth of them rather decided to roam the rivers and kes of the West.

  I have not seen many of the kindred present here today for decades.

  Water and mostly Ground type crystalborn creations surround me. Among them are a rge snake with a head at each end, a beast with an upper body of a horse and the lower body of a fish, a dark green turtle bigger than a cow, a great ape with five eyes and rock pting for skin, a monstrous bck dog, a yellow lizard with six legs, and a bulky, short-limbed, samandrian creature with damp, dark red skin, gnarled horns that curve upward and a tail longer than its entire body.

  Their striking eyes, so alive, so vivid, glow with a gentle radiance of the forgotten starlight. Dozens of my other creations are also present. The majority of crystalborn are wading and swimming in the river.

  All the creatures in this valley are unsentient. A fact that does nothing to diminish my affinity for them.

  Jumping and running would get me here faster, but I find it a crude method of moving that does a decent amount of damage to the ndscape. This would be a sin to the beauty which now surrounds me.

  In the distance to my left, there is a small waterfall. After retrieving a splendid musical instrument out of my saddlebag, I stride a little further down and away from the cascade until I reach a nice stone outcropping, slightly above the water. It is located in a roughly central spot of the purple valley.

  My theater of song is a scenic ndscape partly filled with crystalborn as my audience. And there is no better audience than a quiet audience. I like pying for them, some compositions are mine, and once a decade I might even py a human-made one.

  The flute is of exquisite craftsmanship and was used in the Imperial court. Long ago its melody echoed through paces, adding to the vish ambiance of royalty.

  The delicate-seeming flute is made of aurichalcum. This strongest of metals has an eternal dark red beauty to it with dancing swirls of pale bck shadows frozen within.

  Whatever long-dead human made this was wise and understood there is no need for complicated decorative engravings, the metal's undiminished beauty speaks for itself.

  It is an obscenely decadent way of using bloodsteel. Hmmm...possibly the point.

  I was created with consciousness and a fully formed body. I don't remember much from my first years of existence—all I do remember are chains. They became one with the mind. Simir to how tree roots are part of the soil. Even to this very day I would, on rare sickening occasions, find myself bizarrely missing those roots. Perhaps if I fought harder, she...

  After sighing over the vile days of the past, a distant rumble of a gathering storm in the east reaches my ears, locking my mind back to the valley.

  Hot or cold, the environment is not a factor. I could easily traverse deserts or mountain tops unclothed. Yet, I wear a vest made in opulent red on bck tapestry fabric with raven satin lining and back. It has a tapered fit and ties in the back with velvety belting. The front is fastened with six shimmering Cobalts, painstakingly crafted into buttons. An elegant notched colr enriches the vest's design. The boutonniere of eye-sized Cobalt is masterfully carved into the shape of a single delphinium flower, attached at the left breast. My cotton breeches are bck, with a medium-rise waist and two pockets at the sides.

  Considering my surroundings, these are absolutely not the most appropriate of garments, nevertheless, they are comfortable.

  As I sit on the stone outcropping with legs crossed, my hair brushes the ground.

  The melody I prepare to py for them is written hundreds of years ago by Baur, my first creation.

  Centuries of occasional practice have made me decently proficient.

  I pce the flute to be as level as the surface of the nearby rivulet.

  The song is about a bird that spent its entire life in a maze-like cage. It begins slowly with sad and sweet chirping sounds coming out of the flute.

  The tune stays such for a while, all soft and mellow-like, mimicking the singing of a creature resigned to its fate.

  Only after many years, one of the doors of the main cage opens, and the bird sees its chance to escape—all the while the melody creates this image in my mind, image of a bird in flight.

  The rhythm picks up.

  My fingers move with the blurry speed of a tiny-feathered, pebble-sized blush. But it is not about the speed, it is about tempo. It is about hunting for that warm internal feeling of tingling glory in one's heart that only music can evoke.

  Occasionally, I close my eyes and allow the melody to drench my mind. I focus my hearing fully on the sweet sounds coming from the flute. The nuance and crity of each note are detected. Without haughtiness and with full factual coldness I can state that there is no living thing able to perceive music like me.

  The notes are pure and crisp as they merge into one continuous sound.

  Of course, now goes one of the most exciting parts of the melody, with the bird dramatically trying to find the exit out of the neverending cage-corridors.

  I breathe in the brisk air of the valley through my nose while at the same time, I push the one stored in my mouth. My breathing is one continuous uninterrupted flow making the sound remain always unspoiled and uninterrupted.

  Crystalborn in water and on nd seem almost hypnotized at the lilting sound. My efforts at seeking perfection in every note, every airflow, and every movement of my fingers may seem wasted on an unsentient audience but I don't believe so. Although they may not possess self-awareness this does not diminish their ability to feel.

  Their minds experience curiosity and serenity which then gives birth to fondness.

  The melody moves around me and, like that small river, flows through the serene valley, going somewhere far away.

  It is a positive tune and during the finale—a dramatic culmination made of rising and descending, fast and slow, coiling and unwinding, spiraling and linear, down and up the ethereal stairs of Empyrean, cascading and trickling, subtle and bold, consonant and dissonant, sounds, that unite to form a blissfully-chaotic composition—the bird finds a trickle of light, leading it toward expansive blue skies.

  Baur never got out of his cage.

  As I stop, my creations' reverie disappears.

  A strong gust of wind turns my hair into a dark blue battle standard.

  More than half of the purple leaves fly off their branches. Thousands of them join to form a periwinkle river, coursing above the real one. These butterflies possess a striking violet beauty, with bck-edged wings and a tinge of blue spilling over from their middle.

  That samandrian creature with red skin and gnarled horns is Milo. The shine of his blue eyes is waning. He has close to three hundred years. Over centuries, its eyes lost most of their inner sparkle. Once bright and clear, like the birthing crystal it was born from, the eyes are now dimmer than the veins of a katadron.

  I leave the flute, almost tossing it to the side of my rocky seat, and go to Milo.

  I walk into the shallow edge of the river and sit in it, settling onto the jagged and muddy riverbank. As the chilled water reaches my hips, Milo pces its head on my p.

  For about eight fleeting heartbeats, Milo gazes into the distance, mouth slightly open. A lorn and exhausted look hung over his face.

  Milo's long tail, his entire body, even his horns, all begin to break apart. Turning into a small mound of crystalline dust.

  I lift my palm, clear water and sparkling dust mentingly dance in it. With the slow movement of a falling feather, I lower it back, spreading my fingers in the water.

  Some of the shiny dust floats, some of it sinks.

  All of the dust is swiftly dispersed, taken away by the uncaring flow.

  It could never have had young.

  I stand up straight and gaze ahead, my rise disturbing the river's edge.

  I will never stop.