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[blue_ajah]

The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth returns again

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[creator_raven]

There are songbirds here, still, furtive and fluttering. Such a thread would make a fine addition to a nest, would work to fill in the gaps that leave creatures bare to the elements.

One particularly daring bird, small and brown, darts toward it, buffeted aside by--

kaw

--the heavy wings of a hungry black bird.

The little thread twirls higher, borne skyward by the updraft of beating wings.

It is no butterfly, but perhaps it will serve well enough.

The cousins often do.

[blue_ajah]

A particularly hard gust ruffles midnight-black feathers before the wind eases its grasp on the fragile strands and turns elsewhere, as if losing interest... or letting go.

(a haven - outside the Pattern)

Unfettered by any restraint or earthbound pull, the wisp of thread hangs in midair, seeming almost to float for a timeless, impossible span.

[creator_raven]

It is nothing at all like stepping between one place and another.

It is even less like reaching out to catch hold of a speck of dust, a grain of sand.

And yet there is a hand, and a wrist, and a tangle of bedraggled threads hanging from a timeworn sleeve.

And then there is nothing save the sky, and the stars, the harsh ringing cry of a black-feathered bird--

and the absence of a weight almost too great to bear.

The rest is silence, and the space between.

[blue_ajah]

At first there is nothing more; no sound, no wind, no movement. Nothing.

Except--

--no, nothing.

Only a spark; the smallest flicker of light.