The people lived in a network of caves carved into a cliff-side. Cool air breezed over a tumble-weed populated plain, through the openings and the windows of their homes at night, the air gently rocked fabric covering their doorways, moving hammocks of knitted grass back and forth. These people lived in awe and respect for this wind, crafting chimes and spinning fans that played a twinkling orchestra with the breeze.
At night, they watched the sky.
The stars and the wind combined to create their nightly ceremony. The breeze carried lumbering clouds and scattered wisps across the backdrop of shimmering stars. The people painted shapes with their light - telling stories of past and future, recording their histories in the twinkling infinite.
The shapes of these stories weaved across the sky, combining to create epilogues, dividing to mark new tales. The variety of these paths and tales all originated from a single spot in the sky. The Tree.
The sky's foundation, the mother constellation - the tree was the beginning of every story any of the stars had ever told.
At night, they watched the sky.
The stars and the wind combined to create their nightly ceremony. The breeze carried lumbering clouds and scattered wisps across the backdrop of shimmering stars. The people painted shapes with their light - telling stories of past and future, recording their histories in the twinkling infinite.
The shapes of these stories weaved across the sky, combining to create epilogues, dividing to mark new tales. The variety of these paths and tales all originated from a single spot in the sky. The Tree.
The sky's foundation, the mother constellation - the tree was the beginning of every story any of the stars had ever told.
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