Brother Aeron

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.