I'd finally drummed up the courage to ask someone for help solving my whirlwind conundrum. Though at the time, his reply didn't seem all too helpful. -insert a serious, rusted voice- "Fly south until the earth bleeds blue." He seems very intent, not a single crack in that rigid composure. These strained eyes widen (as if at awe,) but my previously grim expression has brightened. Though not for reasons he likely did assume, "Blue what?" I ask quietly; hardly able to contain my composure when he answers with that same serious tone.

I mean...come on...BLUE LAVA!?

A place called, 'Veins of the Gods.' What irony! I giggle like a loon until I'm nearly rolling from laughing so hard. Not in front of him of course; to myself, miles away and where nobody could give two shits what humor tickled my fancy. I'm nearly convinced that these folks are batpoop crazy. Instead of flying the direction that nameless, nut case suggests; I travel to the ocean. Dead set on figuring out my own problems without the aid of some vu do witch or warlock who lives beside the river of burn the hair off your skin lava. Nope. I wouldn't be played the fool; not me. :)

A few slow weeks slip by and with the passing of time my attitude toward a solution weakens to desperation. Like an ignored thorn, his voice comes racing back (until its all I'm able to think about) -- and this time, when he speaks these naïve ears are more receptive.

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By now I'd come close to turning around three, nope -- these feathers twitch, frayed nerves has my neck starting to bend at an angle as if to peer all the way around...make that four times. The broken trail reminds me of a web, except -- this silken wonder is breasted by a strange, glowing, blueish...lava. Which made that old man not insane after all... It was unnatural though; ever since I'd crossed that narrow strip of land to get here, this place was literally making my flesh crawl. Feathers finally tremble open, they lunge down. Limbs push hard against the smooth volcanic surface and thrust strong to climb high above the sweltering heat. This land is fractured, bleeding. I'd been panting, sweating -- but the cool evening breeze soon dries my discomfort.

Finally, I found the tomes he vaguely described -- a cleared section of land on a ledge beside a bubbling, volcanic mound. Why couldn't it be in a field of butterflies and lilles!? As if the mere sight of an active volcano wasn't deterring enough, these eyes catch hold of a figure standing among the rubble. My unyielding wind bubble suddenly doesn't seem so...problematic; I circle wide, debating. The mainland is dark and far away; these wings ache from travel and I'd come this far -- what IF there was someone who could help me.

Despite this wary mind screaming, fly off, I drop softly, about forty or so feet away and look to the altars. Nothing spectacular. The heavyset youth who stood near was far more interesting, or rather, the bat lizard on his back was. My jaw flaps open, disbelief, "T-t-thats," come on Camon, "Alive." Yes, duh. It was breathing. Somehow I've managed to frown deeper, "It's not made of dirt." This boy wouldn't know of my encounter with a witch and her strange abilities.