Ancient watcher.

If only all could hear the words of silent ancient earth.

Before the storms.

It’s just another day before a storm.

The sun is felt even from behind the clouds, and the heat hangs in the air.

The road.

A fine road it was, one they believed would show their stature. In a house made fortified and rich upon the foundations of a humble clan house.

The crest.

It’s always so much like a waterfall. The slow and steady streams of life cascading down the rock.

In firelight.

The last traces of winter are burned when the fires of old bedding and dead wood reach toward the sky.