The forrest moaned in the bogus wind that failed to brush the Bird-child’s cheek. She had watched the sun rise into the sky, almost springing from the horizon, barely straying long enough to kiss the mountain tips goodmorning. The Bird-child climbed to the peak of one such mountain to survey the land. As she walked, the moss benieth her feet almost seemed to help her unsteady footfalls tread the nonexistant path. The landscape was smiling back at her when her eyes met the skyline, her heart skipped and a shiver ran the length of her spine. Nature was at peace, but a part of her remained sombre, regardles of the celebration of the land around her. Humans made up as much of the land as the spring flowers, or the bees that harvested them. There was a lack of logical purpose that went beyond simple survival. A silver tear spilled from the Bird-childs curious eyes. On the verge of sorrow but kept at bay by the cheer in her surroundings, the Bird-child barely noticed the sliver of smoke rising from the valley.