The Birth of Magic 2.4

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Branch lay on the ground, it was soft, he had chosen a patch of moss for his bed. The fire burned low on the ground, it had been hours since he started it, the coals at its heart glowed brightly. Branch hadn’t tried to do a Growth. A growth mage who couldn’t do a Growing. He chuckled softly, it felt sarcastic, it was sarcastic. He knew it was an understanding he had, but now did not. It was like a good thought, he had to catch it before it got away.
So, he laid there, resting his body, it had been a long grueling day up and down the mountainsides, the trail ran a harrowing course over the ridge-line. It was a spectacular view. Looking out, over the landscape below, as the sun set for the day, and was the very reason he had chosen to come this way. The southern forest was teaming with life and was an enveloping, vivid reminder of the scope of living, but this view, was worth the extra steps.
He went to sleep on thoughts of the ravine, the place of magic sprouting where our story started, of the forest to the south, of magic, of the coming days.
The morning greeted him pleasantly, a great rumbling shook the ground, it scared the sleep right out of him. He sat upright in a flash, just a small trail of smoke drifted up from what remained of the fire. Sometimes, when something wakes a person, the reason for the waking flees before the actual waking up. This happened to Branch, he was sitting up, wondering what had awoken him. He could feel a quiet that rolled out over the forest and mountainside, one that tends to follow a startling.
He stood, kicked some dirt over his fading fire, and stamped it out quickly -his feet were still bare. The morning air held the coolness from night and showed each breath of his. It was early, very early, the light of the new day was barely scratching on the dark skies.

#writerofage

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