#aetas

In an age far later these memories I did recall. North beyond and no longer musical, I sit now writing aside my new friend. He and I immediate an accord did strike in meeting simply by first sight. To him his grave was to call but never faster have I chased such weak and feckless men. Elune, by grace, held at bay two wounds deep and by mere days, little one, closings did soon arrive. Woeful pain aside.

Goldclover grows less so where the whelpling did lay, so a promise with time, I stole away - a half-day trek eastbound to snowless hills while under snowside cliff my friend chose to wait. With but six fistfuls hidden amongst hair and dress, westward my venture took me back. Pestl'd on ice and rock, I coated his scale with mixture of goldclover, snow and stalk.

II.

To wit I did remark upon the dens Kaldorei felines find discipline. As so with that orchestra, the beasts did always watch, Him, their master of arts. With a staff wrought in lumber and steel, He cracks. Unlike music, this fantasy was a dance—in circles as the beasts began their advance. O' the danger! O' the drama! To watch the primal breaking of feral will, an always guilty delight; his rhythm and style by which the sabers did always yield_ _in fright.

Elune, Her Grace, returned to me this image, one I did so easily forget. I believe She brings me a gift of applicability.

Whelpling, brassed and bruised in bronze, trusted not my pleas to travel due north. Little one, my counter, _you wish to die here so, like Him, __Galakrond? _O' Eryth, my son, to watch this dragon weep. We settled 'fore night and spoke arrangements for the morrow; early, we did so depart.

Shandaral, a city in wait, one over his little wings had not yet flown. A confession I did start, that the space we were to share was meager and still very bare; yet to this the little one did at once agree. By two suns and one moon, Shandaral came upon sight. Little Eryth, my son, steel yourself among community and kind. Your name may play across their lips—yet they drip nothing but poison and piss.

III.

To wit I did remark, to my little new friend, that in this week his training would begin. I learn'd his circumstance—chased northward by black scale brethern—to be poached then by my hungry and witless kin. Betwixt thin and four-fold walls I promised him safety and more; but in every rising moon I saw Her concern. Elune's children, all creatures: all good, all evil and those in grey—all deserve a mother in wait. So did I then devise, upon the memories Elune in my mind She did reprise, a tool to return my little friend a gift never once given. A dance we were yet to repeat, a song we were yet to harmonize and sing. A mother nurtures, but too does she mold, in clay, Her very future. Little Eryth, my son, jewel and crown from my soul. I wish one day to see you again.

IV.

To wit I did remark: this instrument will serve verily. Of fashioned smithing I did in earnest request, a cylinder without a crest. The smith's brow enfolds until his forge I coated in golds—a secret my little whelpling was, and so did I keep my promise—baton in hand we learned our dance with song. To hither and hitherto did my whelpling fly. Woeful pain aside. I write this now in celebration: never had I prior hoped to one day teach the offspring of His Aman'thul-blessed brood. Yes, little Eryth, we both did struggle. I, to nurture and yet mold; He, to listen and yet trust.

Heed me: an unlike pair recorded in no other place, will no doubt grow to something more.

We start now on applicability.