Prologue - The Gust

  Wind whispers over a sun dappled forest floor, flitting between columns of light striking down from the canopy. Delicate flora dance in its wake, their sinuous sway is the only sign of a formless touch.

  Buoyed by its gentle hand, leaves fall meanderingly to the ground, weaving a mottled carpet of red and brown. A soft symphony of crackles betrays the presence of many small animals padding over the leafy floor, beneath which smaller creatures skitter and crawl.

  In moments of excitement the breeze will coaxe a lucky few leaves into the air once more, and for a short while adorn the eddies of wind with a russet cloak, before drifting languidly back to the ground.

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  The wind may linger long in the forest, or it may journey on with impatience, trailing a path of rustling grasses and shrubs that tracks across countless miles. At times it may come across lands so barren and stoic it does not respond to the winds playful touch, and from afar nothing can be seen to move, despite the gusting encouragements whirling across the desolate ground.

  There is no place not at some time touched by a soft breeze or roaring gale, nothing tall or small that has not leaned into the harsh push of a storm or layed down to relax among pillowy billows of breeze. The wind comes to see all things eventually, and perhaps at some time all the wonders of life, both macabre and delightful, will lead it to join the cycle itself.

  Perhaps.