This Alongame saying
Always kiss the rival, unless a wet goose is strangely counted by song. Turns out, certain wise’uns count in song, and if you peck them on the cheek, soggy geese’ll peck you in turn.
A butterfly, bound to an empty space now-tilled, which makes this sound whenever anyone is near:
A photo of a journey they took to the Silent Woods on Bookfold‘s map (where they left their silence)
A map, with this note attached
The butterflies are friends, but they are not people, and should be honourably treated as such.
Notes on a development in Alongame and related dedication (partially inspired by Lichencross‘ map)
I did not see the iris-field’s first bloom – high on the Wing’s Ragged Edge, too fearful of the Tunnel to Below and its rumoured cave-geese, I only saw its colours.
Where, I am told, two persons spoke, known only as the Messenger and the Recipient. On high, the Messenger danced among clouds of moths and butterflies for the Recipient, a mere speck below, returning each day. But they were no Wing-Keeper, and the Place Below blew too cold for such small creatures.
Yet they wished to meet, and speak. And so from the banks of the ponds they gathered bright irises, as vibrant as the leaping lepidoptera, and formed a small cluster near the cliff. And there they made a channel to the hot springs, which kept the summer flowers in bloom all year. Each day, they planted one new bloom. In time, the flourishing flowers matched the wings high above.
And, though roots grow slow, and moths burrow slowly as eternity’s wren mines, in time both bored a tunnel that they could meet face to face.
And in time, it shall be where I too pass to below, fear in my heart.
A mushroom poem (inspired by Applecap‘s long dozen)
Seem, even in sleep, to embody our fears;
I heard one sing that this was but dying’s solemnity.
A long dozen poem:
Buffeted by the Wing’s Ragged Edge-winds,
Falls to the unknown Place Below; do they know of us?
Some notes on an acquaintance:
It is difficult to describe Raghred the Wing-Keeper. They’re a taciturn bugger. In that very-much-there way of people who know who they are, and have been that for some time.
They seem to be able to speak a little bit to moths. Or, at least, when I told them that anecdote about the time a bee sat in my ear – I’d meant it as a humorous story of childhood dread to try and make them laugh – they clicked their tongue at a blue(ish) moth they’d passed me and it sat in my ear until long after they’d gone.
With hindsight, I think it might have been their way of returning the joke. Like I said, they’re a strange bugger.
A cairn, which tells the following story:
The crowded home of Those Who See, briefly gathered in an open field near the Wing’s Ragged Edge, lying among the sprawling moths and butterflies. Some lay long enough that the caterpillars crawled through their hair and formed chrysalises in their clothes. They came to care for those puir creatures, so wind-battered as they were, and rested for long enough to see their transformation into wind-soarers, the strange shift eased by constant crooning songs. There was something strange about those songs, not that I especially understand such things. Anyhow, when the need was done Those Who See moved on, as they do, and the little hollows their bodies left in the ground where they’d lain are now pools of water for any to drink from. Making the cairn was a wet job, but a worthwhile one.