For Kwayer's eyes only -- Dies's World

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Above them, in the skies, there was a tale being told. Between the clouds of endless length and throughout the zephyrs' spiral and dance there threaded a story of life and love and woe. It was a legend, and it would eventually be a myth. Its writer, its story teller was none other than a Hawk. His wingspan was of average measure, his eyes a peculiar yellow gold, his heart as pure as the thermals his flight ensnared. And he had a tendency to annoy the horses that so invasively dwelt bellow, on the ground. Them, the flightless ones, hindered by gravity and not knowing the gift of flight. But he had adopted one, adopted one of them that does not fly, does not cry in the heavens, does not know the freedom he takes for granted. In a little clearing this one's mother had lain, in desperation, jeered and leered by his own nuisance self. Disappointed in the lack of response he had simply alighted upon a branch, and watched the progress of the little one's birth. It was gruesome. Why did these flightless ones not lay eggs? Stupid twits. But borne from such pain was a rose grey lunatic, who spent her days rushing about, mother and fatherless and nonetheless happy. Beneath him, on the ground, she had matured, grown, and never known of his watchful eye that had roved toward the Shore upon her visit there. He did not know her, she did not know him, but since this grounded one's birth he had followed her. Two loyal hawks, together and yet apart. And now, this adult mare was seen to stand proudly, her creamed mane and tail soaring with the breeze just as he, and again he alighted upon a branch not far from the unfurling scene. It was with an intrigue known only to his kind that he observed her, standing in eloquence and elegance against the dawn, seemingly awaiting something... someone? Curiosity overtook his urge to take flight once more, and he ruffled his feathers to wait and see.
-><-
Topaz Ar�te stood in belated silence, the breeze chattering in her ears and begrudging lengthy strands of aureate into a psychotic dance, floating suspended in the air. Her eyes were keenly fixed to the distance, searching the hill's brow that blocked a clear view of the hollow's beginning, where the grass became greener and more damp. She had been there for many hours, so long that those who passed shared funny looks with one another, worried, concerned, and evasive. Her was disposition demure and withdrawn, and yet very... there. Thought travelled untamed through her mind, picked up and dismissed just as quickly. Her heartbeat reverberated loudly and close to her ears, creating a lump in her throat and watery eyes. She missed him so much that it hurt. But still she gazed fleetingly and constantly into the distance, her ears straining to hear his call over the drumming of her heart, her figure tilted forward, ready� waiting to run at him in welcome. It did not happen often; her returning moments after he departed, but for once it had hindered her happiness and forced her to take sentinel poise upon a small rise in the meadow. She had slept there, thought there and ate there until there was no more grass above the engulfing snow line. Perhaps it was pathetic, sickening to those who cared to draw an opinion, but for once she was lacking in an assignment to complete until the week coming, when she would leave to the Glade, so she waited. Within Gullshore she was swept away by the sheer resilence to defeat that they adopted, flattered by their manner of greeting her, and even driven to suspicion at their open arms and unfailing amiability. Two strong friendships had been developed with Hush and Blespheme, and her return was written in stone. The sheer difference between a harem in despair like the Shore, and one so powerful that they can justify being antipathy toward a visiting Hawk like the Crest surprised her with no end in sight. But no politics, no representations, no assignments, no offers of power could take her away from awaiting his appearance over that brow of the hill. Not even when a hawk with beady yellow eyes cawed impatiently into the sky did she flinch, she stood in the depth of rumination, her soul and heart travelling beside Sultan.

The meadow and the mountain with desire
...Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest
...Surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast,
And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled between them there.
...What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?
...What could the meadow do but look and yearn,
And gem its bosom to conceal despair?
Their seething passion agitated space,
...Till lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook,
...The river fled: the meadow leaped, and took
The leaning mountain in a close embrace.

-><-

But as the night began to approach the hawk grew hungry and tired, and searched for an excuse for staying out late to tell his maiden at home. He stretched his wings as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, and watched as the last movements that the mare below made were of tucking herself into the snow, a low warble of goodnight excreting to no one in particular. So he was left to ponder the slowly descending darkness, until at last he could barely see. His eyes glowing a soft silver he took flight toward the clearing where he made his home, in the tree where he watched Topaz�s birth. Two hawks, together and yet so far apart.
The horizon was a thin thread of red and orange, its breadth barely that of a feather. And as the colors waltzed together in their prime they rose into the sky, green, aqua, navy, black. The stars carefully, gently dotted through what few clouds had capered from the east, shining their light down into the snow of the meadow, reflecting from the pools and puddles that winter had formed and dancing upon Topaz�s deftly smiling face.

t o p a z
-> ambassador of all that is hawk <-
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Above them, in the skies, there was a tale being told. Between the clouds of endless length and throughout the zephyrs' spiral and dance there threaded a story of life and love and woe. It was a legend, and it would eventually be a myth. Its writer, its story teller was none other than a Hawk. His wingspan was of average measure, his eyes a peculiar yellow gold, his heart as pure as the thermals his flight ensnared. And he had a tendency to annoy the horses that so invasively dwelt bellow, on the ground. Them, the flightless ones, hindered by gravity and not knowing the gift of flight. But he had adopted one, adopted one of them that does not fly, does not cry in the heavens, does not know the freedom he takes for granted. In a little clearing this one's mother had lain, in desperation, jeered and leered by his own nuisance self. Disappointed in the lack of response he had simply alighted upon a branch, and watched the progress of the little one's birth. It was gruesome. Why did these flightless ones not lay eggs? Stupid twits. But borne from such pain was a rose grey lunatic, who spent her days rushing about, mother and fatherless and nonetheless happy. Beneath him, on the ground, she had matured, grown, and never known of his watchful eye that had roved toward the Shore upon her visit there. He did not know her, she did not know him, but since this grounded one's birth he had followed her. Two loyal hawks, together and yet apart. And now, this adult mare was seen to stand proudly, her creamed mane and tail soaring with the breeze just as he, and again he alighted upon a branch not far from the unfurling scene. It was with an intrigue known only to his kind that he observed her, standing in eloquence and elegance against the dawn, seemingly awaiting something... someone? Curiosity overtook his urge to take flight once more, and he ruffled his feathers to wait and see. -><- Topaz Ar�te stood in belated silence, the breeze chattering in her ears and begrudging lengthy strands of aureate into a psychotic dance, floating suspended in the air. Her eyes were keenly fixed to the distance, searching the hill's brow that blocked a clear view of the hollow's beginning, where the grass became greener and more damp. She had been there for many hours, so long that those who passed shared funny looks with one another, worried, concerned, and evasive. Her was disposition demure and withdrawn, and yet very... there. Thought travelled untamed through her mind, picked up and dismissed just as quickly. Her heartbeat reverberated loudly and close to her ears, creating a lump in her throat and watery eyes. She missed him so much that it hurt. But still she gazed fleetingly and constantly into the distance, her ears straining to hear his call over the drumming of her heart, her figure tilted forward, ready� waiting to run at him in welcome. It did not happen often; her returning moments after he departed, but for once it had hindered her happiness and forced her to take sentinel poise upon a small rise in the meadow. She had slept there, thought there and ate there until there was no more grass above the engulfing snow line. Perhaps it was pathetic, sickening to those who cared to draw an opinion, but for once she was lacking in an assignment to complete until the week coming, when she would leave to the Glade, so she waited. Within Gullshore she was swept away by the sheer resilence to defeat that they adopted, flattered by their manner of greeting her, and even driven to suspicion at their open arms and unfailing amiability. Two strong friendships had been developed with Hush and Blespheme, and her return was written in stone. The sheer difference between a harem in despair like the Shore, and one so powerful that they can justify being antipathy toward a visiting Hawk like the Crest surprised her with no end in sight. But no politics, no representations, no assignments, no offers of power could take her away from awaiting his appearance over that brow of the hill. Not even when a hawk with beady yellow eyes cawed impatiently into the sky did she flinch, she stood in the depth of rumination, her soul and heart travelling beside Sultan. The meadow and the mountain with desire ...Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest ...Surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast, And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire. A mighty river rolled between them there. ...What could the mountain do but gaze and burn? ...What could the meadow do but look and yearn, And gem its bosom to conceal despair? Their seething passion agitated space, ...Till lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, ...The river fled: the meadow leaped, and took The leaning mountain in a close embrace. -><- But as the night began to approach the hawk grew hungry and tired, and searched for an excuse for staying out late to tell his maiden at home. He stretched his wings as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, and watched as the last movements that the mare below made were of tucking herself into the snow, a low warble of goodnight excreting to no one in particular. So he was left to ponder the slowly descending darkness, until at last he could barely see. His eyes glowing a soft silver he took flight toward the clearing where he made his home, in the tree where he watched Topaz�s birth. Two hawks, together and yet so far apart. The horizon was a thin thread of red and orange, its breadth barely that of a feather. And as the colors waltzed together in their prime they rose into the sky, green, aqua, navy, black. The stars carefully, gently dotted through what few clouds had capered from the east, shining their light down into the snow of the meadow, reflecting from the pools and puddles that winter had formed and dancing upon Topaz�s deftly smiling face.
	Topaz Ar�te
-> devout and devoted to Sultan <-