If this were a planet you'd have circled it. If this were a star system you'd have crossed it. Although the Sun soars overhead steel fingers will not reach it. This world was old before Zeus invented space. 

You walk through the realm Dream, the brother of Death. 

The path is lit by the sun. Over your head it passes in regular circles; every day it passes through the underworld so to be reborn anew in some distant sky. This too is a truth older than mere space. Its direction lights the way, a constant fixed point along a golden path across a golden world. These are dreams of hills, the dreams of hills, and their memories go on and on.

Sometimes the hills imagine themselves mountains. They remember the fire and the crush and the gallop of the Earthshaker's horses. They remember when they grew, each of them reaching up to pierce the clouds that the gods might find a home on their crowns. With this ultimate crown to strive for the hills grew like forests, into mountains and beyond. The engines of the Plovers do not strain to cross them even so. Run, run, run - and leap! The world below becomes a patchwork, and only the warning heat of the sun on the backs of your necks drives you down again. Some lessons do not need to be learned more than once.

You move against the stream. The River Lethe flows ever towards the Underworld and on its ethereal currents are washed strange remembrances, even in this ancient and desolate place. Here on a mountaintop is a house - a shack, really, a place where the paint peels from soft and splintering wood. It stands on stilts that were once vibrant red but are now stained a rusty shade by the iron-rich sand it perches upon. Its doors are missing and insides are crowded but upon the walls wags have confessed which of their friends are stupid and volunteered their sexual services if only you could resurrect the technological paradigm that transformed their glyphs into words. The floor is thick with broken glass, layered in dust, and paradise for the beetles who come here to escape the mountaintop heat. Their shells are brown and polychromatic both, simple things that Poseidon loves and blesses and makes numerous enough to fill these ancient hills.

From here, on this scorching pinnacle, it is time for the first pause for rest. In the world ahead the hills are crushed beneath grain, beneath trees, and beneath the ever-stamping hooves of sheep. The world goes on forever in every direction, without even the curvature of a planet to trick your eye and hide these horizons from you, and in this moment you are at the top of it all.

When you are done with the view, some practicalities. The Plovers are low on fuel; the mountains were ancient and their dreams drank all of the chemical tribute offered to them. The obvious move is to consolidate all the fuel in one vehicle and use it to haul all the food, gear and medical supplies needed for the journey. And then... Not on foot. Not yet. The next stage will be simply to glide. To unfold artificial wings and cross these worlds as a flock of geese until the last of the fuel runs dry and the last of the altitude gives out. 

There is much to be done. Many details to be taken care of. Many skills to be used. So much to focus on. So much that can't be focused on - and it is there, in the unattended parts of your minds, that the current of Lethe sets things drifting. If you work hard on the practical skills of the journey you will start to lose softer things, names and faces. If you spend time holding on to the people you love you will start to lose skills and habits. Name one thing to keep, and one thing to stay behind.

*

[b]Dyssia![/b]

The Azura had never gone in much for time. No watches, no clocks, no time sheets or punch cards. An air of timelessness was desirable, even - the idea of a craftsman becoming lost on their Path with no interruptions to their meditation was something to be lauded. In a way, it was a gift - there was never a particular sense of rush, and the idea of going outside in anything less than your state-mandated Best was unthinkable.

But all the same, sometimes people got annoyed with you for opaque social reasons if you took too long to arrive somewhere and it was never quite clear what an acceptable delay was. It depended on the rank of the person being made to wait, it seemed. Does that uncertainty bother you, Dyssia?

Tell us also of your clothes, of your scales, of the collection you bring with you. Are you a beautiful sky blue, or a muddy violet? Do you accent yourself with a perfectly complimentary cascade of crystals and sea gold or with an offensive red cloak? Do you carry your gear yourself - easy in zero gravity - or do you have a collection of squires and other subordinates to haul it around for you? And on the scale of 'politely hurried' to 'utterly unhurried', how long do you make the Sage wait?

(As to society's expectations: If you have violet or indigo scales, to dress in red is rebellious but understandable, if you have beautiful blue scales and dress in red it's a tragedy akin to masking a great beauty. If you carry gear yourself you are considered to be an eccentric unless you are carrying so much as to seem to be some form of strength training. Many Azura of low rank will have ten servitors on hand, an aristocratic Knight is expected to command a Legion. You can dress exactly according to your station, or make some small fashionable alterations to indicate desire to advance in the Court - but dressing above your station [i]outright [/i]will have you thrown in prison for months.)