Patiently the Journeyman sits atop an ancient tower, one of many relics left behind. He cannot hear the old machines blasting away and for now that is something he is thankful for. Instead he blinks his bright eyes up at the blazing sun before gazing down to the desert below. Rich endless sand as far as the eye can see, it flows in waves caressed by the gentle ever-flowing winds.
He will watch and he will wait. Sitting atop this tower is peaceful for now. Soon he will have to move on, but for this moment of happy solitude he can remain.
What he waits for? The very same thing as always. That for which everyone waits.
That familiar sound of his cloak flapping in the wind is a welcomed one. The Journeyman is reminded of who he is, of what he must do, and how he must get there. He is a White Cloak, elder in this world of youth – of what lies after the destruction of old. He is proud but he knows the weight of his pride. White and gold scarf before him sways in the wind attempting to capture it, a symbol of his strength – possibly of his wisdom. But he would never admit such a thing. Only the unwise claim wisdom.
Closing his bright eyes, his face seems totally midnight black except for the two bands of gold, the signs of his age. He listens to the song of the desert. That very same echoing melody that calls out to him, beckoning him towards the light.
"Maél is mé tó féran. Aleto men moi nostos."
Bowing his head, he understands that his time for waiting is now over. In such a small effort he opens his eyes and releases a small chirp. It is faint, but carries on the wind.
His echo is returned – a chirp calls back in the distance. He stands up from his perch on the tower, he knows what he must do.
Soon enough skidding down the desert sand slopes is one so small, was there a time when the Journeyman was so small? A simple coat of red, no pattern embellishes this ones so small can't know what is to come, can't know of the hardship or of the trials. It is good for the little one, for this traveller can live in bliss, if only for a little longer.
From the Journeyman's place he watches the little red one's jumps and flips, maybe an attempt at flying? The young don't have the power of the old – but sooner rather than later they will.
The small red one searches for the owner of the original echo, it sees the tower, but hasn't yet found the Journeyman.
With a small shake of his brilliant cloak of white and gold, he allows himself to fall from the tower's height. He carries on the wind, gliding as the cloth creatures do until he stands before the red cloaked traveller.
With a loud cluster of calls the red one gazes up in true wonderment. Bowing and releasing a brilliant call, the Journeyman reassures the little one. He will guide this one as long as he can, but this journey is for the red cloak. The little one will have to learn the truth of their past, and their future.
The Journeyman allows himself another call, before setting off for the peak. Now he must face this journey once again.