#icespine

storm's clearin'

In the space between winter and summer, Icespine begins its sprint from one season to the next. Its winds quiet their howls. Its skies brighten into unbroken swaths of blue. Its fields blossom with colors. The cold retreats north, allowing the sun to seep into the land’s bones in its wake and rouse it from slumber. Within the span of a few months, the sun will bake instead of seep and the rains will play coy to beckon droughts. The spring wildflowers bloom while they can, because like most things in Icespine, they will be here and gone again in the blink of an eye. Change is a constant companion to the steppe, just as it is to the ephemeral people who call it home.  A bundle of cool safflina sprigs rest in a small, clawed hand. Its owner wanders through tall grass, methodically plucking only those periwinkle flowers from the sea of colors. His face remains hidden behind a wooden red bird mask as he shuffles along. Some yards behind him, a group of fellow masked youngsters dilly-dally under the supervision of two teenagers. The latter sit atop a large rock, watching over them like shepherds. A basket of safflina rests in the center of their small herd. One of the teens, a heavier set boy in a marmot mask, suddenly perks up. He counts the imps under his breath. When he comes up one short, he hops to his feet and glances around like a meerkat, quickly spotting the lone Igo toddling away. He gives a short whistle, but the wandering imp doesn't look up. He sighs at his fellow babysitter. "Head in the clouds, huh?" he chuckles.  The other teen shakes her head, peering at him through the wide, carved eyes of a polecat. She's the oldest of the crew and the de facto leader, but still young at only sixteen.  "It's ok, he does that," polecat reassures. She lifts her mask and cups a hand by her mouth to call out. "Ursang! Don't wander too far off now, ya hear?"