//------------------------------//
// I 
// Story: Wayfarer 
// by The Plebeian 
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Vivid light. Just beginning to edge over a sharp peak is a half-hidden disc of pure, burning light. Its rays cast themselves out over fields of small verdant green blades – made smudges – that surround the lonely peak. A small range of mountains arrange themselves in a half-ring that spans far around their colorful, excluded companion.

The mountain is colorful not of its own accord, but because of a city, built upon its side in shades of royal violet, gold, and white. Strangely and whimsically, it spans out from the mountain in defiant fashion, as defiant as the colors seem to the duller greys and tans that make up the rocky spires. The city carries its own spires as well, with brilliant domed roofs that just begin to catch the essence of the vivid light, almost glittering in its own welcoming radiance. The spires of white seem to shine as brightly as their benefactor, a sight that might blind the beholder, might they be there to see it. The golden trim reflects just so, and with an even greater semblance of the magnificent glow behind. Of the spires, a select cluster rise above, though its bright colors serve to conceal any sense of minute detail adorning them. Just before them lies a glittering gate of the same gold luminance, with two golden speckles on either side. It is a well-adorned city, which adorns well its mountain in turn.

Although, the city is not timeless. Some of the domes, once quite lustrous, must have turned dull. Their splendrous arches faded, decrepit. Though no building is in visible ruin, many have indeed lost their innate beauty in time’s slow tide. It cannot be told whether wind, rain, or neglect have marred the gilding off of the city’s concrete, or the dyes off of the frayed curtains and tapestries. Perhaps they have simply met the gorgeous light too many times, and no longer find glimmering excitement at its arrival. Perhaps to them, it is a mere sense of tempo, thus they do not reflect its rays, or cast off brilliant colors and shades to complement its showy rise. Perhaps, they shine for another light, of different nature. Indeed, no building is rubble.

The sky surrounding is painted in scarlet red and fiery orange, lining the edges of stray white puffs and throwing new color into the once-green smudges below, however faint. The stony-grey peaks acquire a ruddy hue, and the city, too, takes a fraction of its glow. The mountains behind claw the sky open at its edges, and may be said to have released from the wound such a lovely crimson. On the opposite edges, red fades to a speckled white-blue, which extends far beyond.

And then he.

A new, more vivid blue finds its way into the scene, replacing pieces of grey stone and red skies. It takes equine shape, and up along the neck and tail are found streaks of black, thrown back behind the form by the streaks of blue and red. From its sides extend wide wings at full span, currently in a downward stroke. The ruddy hues find themselves a home on the edges of the blue feathers, accentuating the minute bristles that make up the wings. Upon the face are wide white arcs, drawn further into ovals, which both nest blue-green atolls around perfect black islands, which both carry in themselves an image of the garish city, and the glorious light behind. Just under, on the snout, are wide nostrils, taking in the essence of the skies around, and further under is a small curve, drawn tight upward at its edges. Above the eyes rest softer curves, drawn up at their centers. The black locks threaten to drift over the eyes, but the sky keeps them at bay, casting them instead over the ears. Across the pony’s shoulder is slung a brown bag, which seems well-tossed in the wind, light, and lonely. In the streaks of black around the ears rests a small dash of red, an alien feather, unfamiliar to the wings stretched out left and right, or any wings quite like it. It mimics the scarlet of the sky, and even grows orange near the edge, and at the bristling tips, a faint yellow. It shines brighter, admittedly, than any other feather on the being, simply for its rare edging of flame. The wings – though drawn down – as well as the rest of the bright-blue being angle themselves well toward the shimmering city, as therein rests a flame reminiscent of the feather in its mane. Its forehooves are folded lazily beneath, and its rear hooves drift behind with the tail. Across the pony’s flank stretches a map, a landscape without particular detail, but recognizable by its arrangement of verdant greens and ocean blues, and an occasional triangular brown pockmark, all edged by the tan of aged parchment. Still, on no part of the map is shown a destination, any characteristic ‘x,’ as it would surely mar the indefinite landscape with a further mystery.

There is little curiosity in the eyes, for they have reflected the scene before. What is left to discover lies not in the whites, golds, and violets of the city, but perhaps in the dulled greys, and faded yellows. Still, each spire has its own golden outline in the bright blue-green eyes, and even the iconic mountain top has found its own place amongst the golden towers, the first bearer of the great light; the golden silhouette around is the harbinger of fiery light’s arrival. Just as well, in the white seas of the eyes are reflected the keen red hues of the sky, complete with the infinitesimal white puffs, and edged with the softer blues of the receding night sky. Greater is the smile of familiarity, a benevolent, memory-prompted smile, which begins at the edges of the pony’s mouth, and there shares his satisfaction. There is life here, among the spires. There is a morning’s light.