The smell of burning cedar anchored Runi’s physical body to the meditation mat in his small attic room. But Runi himself—his consciousness, wrapped in a shimmering sheath of astral light—was light-years away. He floated in the Drift, the currents of the astral plane swirling around him like nebulae of indigo and spun gold. Today’s practice was weaving. It was delicate work, taking the raw, chaotic energy of the realm and knitting it into stable constructs. Runi extended his translucent hands. With a mental twist, he pulled a thread of cerulean light from the ether. He began to braid it with a strand of sunset-orange, intending to create a simple lantern of focused intention. Focus. Stabilize. Manifest. The weave was tight. It hummed with potential. Then, a rogue current hit it. It wasn't a gentle breeze; it was a heavy, thrumming undertow that dragged at his astral form. His half-finished lantern unraveled in a shower of sparks. Annoyance flared, but curiosity quickly overtook it. This current felt different—ancient, dense, and inexplicably magnetic. It tasted like ozone and old iron. Against the better judgment of his teachers, who always warned against leaving the charted shallows of the Drift, Runi followed the pull. He descended. The vibrant colors of the upper realm faded into varying shades of deep violet and charcoal gray. Here, thoughts didn't manifest instantly; the space felt thick, resistant, like moving through spiritual molasses. This was the Deep Astral, where forgotten dreams and primordial concepts sank to rest. The current led him to what looked like a floating island made of obsidian jagged spires jutting into the velvet darkness. In the center of the island was a crater, glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse. Runi drifted closer, his silver cord—the lifeline connecting him to his body—stretched taut behind him. In the center of the crater, nestled in a bed of crystallized starlight, it sat. It was roughly the size of a human head, a coalesced knot of immense magical pressure. It appeared as a large, teal-blue oval, glowing with a soft, internal light. Its surface was webbed with intricate, darker teal veins, like leaves. Encrusting the entire object was a gnarled, thorny wooden frame, its brown, organic branches curling around and embracing the luminous core like protective roots.

In the hills overlooking the hamlet of Summerset, a tired, quirky, seemingly aloof tangle of a man wanders the ancient ruins. In search of any kind of arcane (or otherwise) mystical magical items, I "fall upon" (as though, I'm nearly did) a seeming unremarkable moss covered stone buried in brush and dirt. Under closer inspection, as I dusted off the muck, a gentle aqua (blue/green) opalesent sheen cast off from the stone. I noticed a kind of thrumming energy emitting from the "stone". It knew I was there, and it was happy to see me, as if a puppy just waking up from it's nap.

When one travels as much as this one, the body endures distance and struggle. There is need of relocation and new customers. New opportunities for business and trade. Future doesn't come from nothing. Preparation and effort is required for change and fortune. The path is long and weary but the pack is light. Some food some morsels in case hunger strikes, outfits for weather, compass and knife, and supplies for simple tent. Most important is empty sack slung over shoulder. A relic. A mystery. In some ways, a companion, very silent and motionless companion, but good for business. Dull but entertaining at times, and very much constant. This one idly wonders what it would be to have travel companion. Safer maybe. Livelier. More entertaining. But the life this one lives is not for many. A sign of town "Hatchmere" was accurate prediction as dark silhouettes of hollow buildings seen in the night. This one enters quietly, unnoticed. Not enough coin for room or bed yet but maybe safe place is found. Slipping past windows lit and dark a sudden weight alters balance. The empty bag is heavy and straining as if not so empty. This one swears it was but when hoisting in view the bulge is visible and the weight unmistakable. Something inside! A large stone? Who would drop this? And why in this bag. Inside is no stone. An egg. Warm, pulsing, black in color but an inner red. Natural etchings of shell looked cracked like islands tearing from seams and lava ready to burst or divide. The inner glow pulses with this ones heart and a truth is known. "Mine?" is all this one can ask and not surprisingly no answer is heard. This one barely manages to care for self. For a life to be in her hands, so suddenly, and yet her heart is already in sync. They beat and pulse together. This new ward is precious and much is needed to care for being that will surely grow. The pack is rearranged. Rope and cloth are tied to swaddle the egg and carry on back like new pack. "You are safe," this one whispers, "This one will protect you."

When I was 1 year old my parents discovered I could talk to dragons that are still in their eggs… so unhatched dragons. I would sit for hours going from one dragon egg to another that were in our fairy nursery talking gibberish. Soon that gibberish became words and some eggs I would not go to. When asked why I explained that they weren’t old enough to talk yet and definitely not ready to be paired with anyone. After I turned 3 my parents noticed that I always ended up talking to a certain egg and whenever I would talk the egg would glow pink inside of the shell. So it was decided by my father that it was time to ask me if this was the one for me. So as my mother held me, my father picked up the egg and walked to us. I strained to reach out to the egg and laughed with joy. “Mine Mine” I said and we all celebrated. My mother made me a soft fur bag so I could carry my egg and told me that I needed to carry this egg until it was the time to hatch. “But remember this will take some time… your dragon needs to grow with you.” My mother reminded me. About 3 full moons later I met Urglish the Trollmom carrying a small child around the age of 5 years old. They went into a special room for a conference with my parents. After a while they came out and introduced Aliva @Misty to me. We became fast friends and for a few years they stayed around our home while Urglish visited the troll clan that was down the way by our home. Then sadly they had to leave again. During the next 30 years we would meet a few more times and we were still close friends. Between visits we would send messages back and forth. Since Im a fairy I don’t age very much so I still look much younger than I am and my parents are worried about that my dragon still hasn’t hatched so that I would be protected and not be alone. So they asked me to travel to see Aliva @Misty and maybe it would help because they had heard She lived close to a Hatching dragon village. And maybe the presence of other dragons hatching would help motivate my egg to hatch as well. So I packed my bag and made sure I had my cloak and started out.

We have left Mother and departed from the safety of Home to journey into the unknown. She is curious. Curious about the things and wonders She sees below. She wonders how they came to be, and when … and why. Are they a blight? An infection? .......... Or are they something more? But Mother cannot descend to investigate for Herself. Her glory would end theirs, and She does not wish that. So we go in Her stead. We are Her child. Her light to the unknown. Her doorway to the wonders about us. We are Stormfire. From our high perch we drift downward, marveling at the beauty around us. How dust and stone have melded and merged into so many countless and wonderous shapes. Huge, ponderous chunks flow slowly by, intent on .... nothing it would seem. Little lost ones zip about gleefully, dancing and sparkling in the wind. Ah, the symmetry of it all … spheres of wonder circling in joy, bathed in Mother’s glory. We marvel at how light scatters across the emptiness, painting rock and stone in shifting hues. Such a delight to behold. Mother will love this. We see movement below and pause, uncertain of their intent. Many different things… some faintly like us, others vastly different. Fragile shapes, as though they might topple and shatter in the slightest breeze. Yet they cluster, they separate, they cluster again — a ballet that makes no sense, and yet somehow seems to. How do they move upon such fragile appendages? Surely they must injure themselves. But no — some dart quickly, while others wobble and teeter, leaning upon dead things. It is a wonder, how they live among so many dead things. We will learn, for Mother. She will be pleased with Her daughter. For now, we sit and watch. We listen to the odd chirping noises they make. When the time is right, we will make our presence known.