This one has been written for Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday.
Word bank prompt: Opal, Vague, Whirl, Dream, Sheer, Conjure, Bare, Allure.
A brief, but flighty story, enjoy. If you want to read what other writers and poets have written, follow the link at the end of the first sentence above
What’s at hand
There you stand, out beyond the foothills above the bight, like a dream surrounded by just a sheer veil of hard lit mystic rain, beneath a sky of fire and tempest gusts. Bare to the fury and feisty might of the last free southern ocean, whom cast a net of allure to tempt you from the hill top forests where the rangers live their lives. The tale they told you, of how to retrieve the low woodlands lost, deep beneath the southern seas. An ancient longbow in one hand, at your side an old and battered quiver, chocked of Ebony and Opal, with the feathers of a Swift. You whirl around for one last look, the forest hilltops behind the veil, as your fellow rangers bid you all the best, with foresters at their sheltered makeshift keep. Vague in thought for just a moment, you come to grips with what’s at hand, the forest magic at your side, these old friends to low woodlands, here to conjure their safe return. For it has been twelve long days and nights, today the thirteenth now the darkest of them all, as your fingers grasp above the feathers, swift, an ancient shaft of Ebony, a large black razor Opal tip appears, for five of these you pluck, and place within the earth. Enchanted by the ancients, they wake the lofty four born winds, as bolts and chains, the lightening twist and cracks around you, to reflect upon the free oceans chaos. Nocking Ebony shaft to bowstring, you set your stance to draw, the swift feathers slowly backwards, till to your chin before your eye. Raising up your arm half aloft, the rain veil it takes a pause, till now release, the Swift flight razor Opal lead, ancient black Ebony taut shaft, cuts a path before the winds. Without a second thought, four sisters follow too, as one by one, each dives deep to the free southern ocean’s new found bed. Waking of the low woodlands, from their twelve day slumber dream as the earth begins to quake, the seas they whip a might fury, they cast you well far back, from once your feet had held their stance. See the woodland trees, as they break the oceans surface, their now mottle green and gold, as you lay there for a moment, the sky begins to break as the lofty four born winds become a whisper. For this is now the legend, the four winds as they tell the tale, of how the forest and the woodlands were reunited in the time of their great need…