The surface of the world was mostly red
with some grey here and there
It swept around
and sometimes
obscured in billows
the flying beasts
that often filled the air
The clouds themselves were different yet again
all pink and splendor
jagged more than round
a rugged landscape
hovering, looming,
naked crystals glinting light,
700 feet above the ground
I walked into my keep
and pressed my hand onto the pad
it slid aside and offered drink
which I declined
it chirped
its own mechanical tut tut.
The message hadn’t come
and it had now been days:
four flights I’d say, if I could count them right.
I slammed the crimson crust off of my boots
and sat down heavily
and kicked them off and planted feet again
my stockings crunching down
on carmine flecks of nimbus castaway.
IndigoFlindigo 