Windell Ventrix

439

»»-----------¤-----------«« Windell Ventrix wasn’t known for following paths—he was known for creating them. While most riders trusted balanced frames and stable wings, Windell built something the sky itself seemed unsure how to handle. His glider curved like a drifting storm-bird, one wing broader than the other, ribbed skywood and storm-gray silk bending smoothly with every shift of air. “If the wind wants to test me,” he murmured once while tightening a strap, “it can try.” Born on Wispfall Verge, where cliffs were narrow and gusts unpredictable, Windell learned early to read the sky by instinct. He’d sprint off ledges before anyone else dared to breathe. Most children glided a few seconds. Windell flew minutes. Hours. Until the horizon swallowed him whole. When he returned—windburned, light-footed, and carrying carvings no one on his island recognized—elders demanded answers. He only shrugged. “There’s more out there. You just don’t look far enough.” Other riders said he was reckless. Windell only smiled at that. “Reckless? No. Curious.” His reputation grew the same way he flew: fast, unpredictable, impossible to pin down. And when he stepped onto a cliff’s edge, glider flexing behind him as if alive, the sky seemed to pause—waiting to see what this troublemaker would do next. »»-----------¤-----------«« Have a fantastic flight moonbeams🌙... straight from the sky, just for you!

Tabby Mothroot

23

(Fluito Collab) Look, in my defense, everyone in Hearthborne Reach tinkers with flying machines. Some knit. Some carve wood. Me? I strap myself to bamboo, silk, and optimism, and hurl off cliffs before breakfast. Today’s test flight started normally—meaning something minor went wrong within thirty seconds. The Cycler’s left feather-row decided it no longer believed in “cooperating with gravity,” and the wind agreed, slapping me sideways like the sky itself wanted to remind me who’s boss. “Rude,” I mutter, kicking the pedals. Copper cams clatter indignantly. Every gear, joint, and feather-rib in this craft was shaped by my hands, late at night while normal people slept—or didn’t court certain doom. Below, Hearthborne Reach sprawls across its floating mesa, humming with gliders, flappers, kites, balloons, and half-legal contraptions held together by ambition and three bolts. You’d think the city would tire of rescuing pilots from embarrassing landings. Nope. They’ve made charts for it. Color-coded charts. Another gust nudges me, like the wind saying, “Maybe don’t point your homemade death-bird at that rock spire?” “Noted,” I sigh, tugging the lever. The Cycler smooths into a perfect glide, as if it’s laughing at me. Most Reach pilots rely on artisan teams. Me? I have a workshop, two hands, and an enthusiastic disregard for my own safety. People say I’m spunky. My father says I’m impatient. Instructors say, “Stop testing prototypes above the market square.” Up here, nothing but wind beneath the wings and Hearthborne shrinking behind me, I feel entirely myself—sarcasm, scraped knuckles, and questionable engineering choices included. A final gust lifts me. “See?” I grin into the wind. “We get along—as long as you stop throwing tantrums.” The wind whistles back. Honestly, fair enough.

Brother Aeron

2

Mariel’s Loom drifted beneath you like a tapestry suspended in the sky, its woven banners fluttering in the wind. As your sky bicycle descended, you spotted a lone figure at the island’s edge—an elderly monk standing perfectly still, pigeons resting on his shoulders like statues. He watched your approach with the rapt attention of someone witnessing a comet. Your wheels touched down on a reed landing pad, the bicycle’s sails folding with a soft sigh. The monk took a hesitant step forward, eyes sparkling with reverence. “A windrider,” he murmured, voice trembling. “A soul who tames the breath of heaven.” You hadn’t come for admiration—just a supply pickup of fabric, rope, perhaps new sailcloth—but his gaze made you feel like a legend. “I am Brother Aeron,” he said, bowing. “Welcome to the monastery of Mariel’s Loom.” You only meant to nod politely, but he shuffled close, pigeons hopping along his shoulders. “You seek goods, yes?” He didn’t wait for your answer. “But have you come for wonders? For I, too, have touched the sky.” You try not to laugh. The man looks ancient enough that a stiff breeze could topple him. Yet he beckons you toward a humble contraption at the cliff’s edge—a basket stitched from reeds and cloth scraps, ropes trailing upward like puppeteer strings fastened to waiting birds. “This,” he says, resting a hand upon it as though blessing a relic, “is my ascent. A modest one, but the heavens measure not height—only devotion.” Before you can question him, he lowers himself into the basket with practiced care. He claps twice, soft yet commanding. The pigeons take wing. The ropes go taut. The basket rises. Not far—barely the height of your chest—but Aeron’s grin glows brighter than any sky lantern. He drifts forward, the pigeons straining above him. The basket sways, creaks, moves slower than a tired ox, yet he rides it with the dignity of a king surveying his airborne realm.

Tala Redwing

1

The skystalk forest of Nimaaya rises in pillars around you—ruddy, towering trunks that vanish into drifting mist. Gathering days are always long, but she moves through the branches with an ease you’ve never matched. While you cling to bark and knotted ropes, she leaps. Arms spread, legs angled, her glide suit catches the wind like a living thing. She laughs as she sails to the next perch, her silhouette flashing between sunbeams. You shake your head, pretending not to worry, then follow as best you can. The two of you move this way for hours—collecting ripe sunfruit, scooping speckled cliff-eggs from woven nests, filling your satchels as the island drifts westward. By the time you’re returning back to the tribe, she’s fully in her element. She kicks off a branch and spirals through a tight gap between trunks, swooping low enough for leaves to brush her cheek. “Race you to the ridge,” she calls, already gone. You mutter a curse and climb after her. She’s waiting at the cliff’s edge, the sky wide and endless beyond her. You step beside her, ready to tease her for cheating, when she stiffens. Her gaze shifts downward. There—through the haze—another island glides into view, dusky brown with a fringe of green. You freeze. It’s close. Closer than you’ve ever seen any island come. You both sit on the cliff, legs dangling, watching the slow dance of drift. Its trajectory arcs beneath Nimaaya’s southern side. Wind carries the earthy scent of foreign soil—a strange smell in a world you’ve known your whole life. You lean forward without realizing it, eyes wide. “I wonder what’s down there,” you murmur. But the thought slips out of you wholly before you know you’ve spoken it. She turns. You see the spark—bright, reckless, irresistible. A smirk curves her lips. “We should.”

Ressa Panzer

2

They dismissed you as another daydreamer, an inventor with dreams of flight, but destined to join the list of lost souls that failed. Some with their lives. Ressa Vale was different. She lingered near your workshop, peering through the cracked barn doors as though secrets leaked through the gaps. While others mocked the ridiculous metal frame with wheels and wings, she circled it with a grin, poking at joints, tapping spokes, and asking questions faster than you could answer them. She traced each component with bright, curious eyes—like she was already imagining how it would feel beneath her feet, rushing toward the cliff before anyone could tell her not to. Her curiosity quickly turned to determination. She spent every day beside you. Questions became practice, and fascination became training. Slowly, the Sky Bicycle became less a curiosity and more a machine shaped by her courage—and by your guidance. From that moment, she became the rider and you became the reason she could leap. She trained relentlessly. You rebuilt and refined after every run, scraping your knuckles, ignoring the growing crowd waiting for your dream to fail. The elders called it folly. Parents forbade their children from watching. People shook their heads as though preparing for a funeral. Ressa didn’t seem to hear them. She was not fearless—her hands trembled sometimes, quiet and private—but her resolve hardened each time someone said the sky was no place for humans. Together, you shaped the Sky Bicycle into something real. Wings locked into place, sails stretched tight, wheels trued to perfection. It looked fragile, but felt ready.