High Summer

A river ran here once, winding its way between the harder stone, leaving tables of flat land to bake in the high sun. Naturally these plateaus have become homes for the brave and solitary, ourselves included.

Winters are hard, but the summers… with the call of birds and insects in the static river of trees below, and the the warm winds and soft sun to caress the risen plains, and the endless sky stretching and stretching, full of clouds and falcons and wide flocks of geese… Glorious.

These lands were made for dragons, and those with the hearts of dragons.

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