Gentle rain along the treetops - it drips down in a cascade. It slips from leaf, to branch, to trunk, to root. It sweeps away dirt and ash. It settles at the floor of the forest; within its wetness pools rot and timber, and leaves that sit gently across the top, and that wait to be swept up again by the wind once more. The rain covers the forest in a misty haze, blurring the outlines of figures and trees. One would not be able to see past the depth of their own fingertips.

Dearest Cedmon,

He rushed to the stairs.

A statue, they had said.

No, statues were the smallest concern of Felegoth.

“A gesture of friendship,” Faörie proclaimed, offering a freshly picked rose to Annúngil, “Please accept this token.”