Careful not to wake me at such an early hour, Syndra slides out of bed and sneak out of our house. She inevitably always steps on the creaky floorboard, which stirs me out of my dreams. Through sleep heavy eyes, I watch her don her fall cloak and fix her hair in the mirror, and then smile at her reflection. She moves so slow, in everything she does, with such grace and purpose.
She leaves. I wait. Then I leave. I trail for behind and watch as she steps delicately over the frost covered ground, crunching dead leaves under her toes. Syndra stirs the thick fog under her nimble fingers, speaking a druidic enchantment in her musical, eternal voice. A golden shimmer followed her movements, creating mystic symbols in the air.
What a wonderful way to start my day.











