By The Moon's Blade

3. The Festival of the Clouds, Two Years Ago

They place the brush tip into their mouth and as they pull it out from between their lips, the bristles are formed into a sharp point. Burgundy lip stain smudges on the gold ferrule of the brush. They twirl the brush in their hand, bringing it to a stopping point before lightly grasping it between their fingers. They dip the bristles into a cobalt blue pigment and begin swiping back and forth, rhythmically and delicately. They remove a small cloth from their bag and wipe any excess blue onto the cloth. They repeat this process with a kaleidoscope of colors, continuing to swipe back and forth. The sound of their brush hitting canvas is a familiar comfort, like the first sip of tea in the sunrise glow of the tearoom sofa.

I lean over to look at Shalia's painting, but they see my craning neck and slowly turn their body away with a devious grin. I go back to my notes but still notice over-the-shoulder glances in my direction.

I've always had a special relationship with Shalia, my best friend since before we could walk. We've always been inseparable. But as of late, something has changed. I've started picturing their hand in mine, strolling down the streets of Starmill, the gentle scent of nightbells intermingling with their own resinous perfume. We'd take our days off to travel up the lift, enjoying the vastness of the world below. We'd take the lift all the way to the top and start our day in Plumestead. Shalia would pick up a delicate bracelet, place it around my wrist, and leave a tender kiss on the top of my hand.

Making our way down, we'd stop in Kalenore and howl our way through the entangled walkways throughout the village, taking momentary breaks to look down below as the quiet folks of Kalenore peek their heads out of their homes with curiosity. Our venture would continue down to Snowvein, where we'd grab a hearty lunch and a crisp mug of ale. We'd enjoy the subtle calm of the afternoon tavern and take in a comfortable silence together. After savoring every moment, we'd head out and make our descent back home.

Of course, we'd make some necessary stops to pick up some pastries from Uzul and a travel barrel of dwarven snowapple ale from Gilbaldur, then take the final lift ride to Starmill. We'd come back to those Starmill streets we left in the late morning, buildings now coated in a cotton candy hue from the setting sun. We'd spend our evenings painting, writing, and listening to the sounds of music coming from the neighboring homes. I'd spend twenty minutes dragging them to bed as they insisted on falling asleep on our couch, an irony that I'd always recognize.

After a few minutes of peaceful daydreaming, I was shaken back to reality by a shout off in the distance.

"Oi! You all couldn't wait for us?!" shouted Quinn, a medium-statured Lunari carrying a similar notebook to mine. His hair was tied back into a tight ponytail and was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit. The light above glinted off his face-framing circular glasses.

Along with Quinn trailed a couple of our other friends from Starmill — Liri and Tinder.

"We had to make a couple of stops along the way, and we assumed you didn't want to wake up at the ass crack of dawn with us," says Shalia as they rise from the ground to give Quinn a hug.

Quinn looked particularly annoyed as he apathetically draped an arm around Shalia's shoulders.

"Sheesh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the brightstream..."

"So sorry for any delay! I'll take the blame, I woke up late. After hanging out with Rozi at The Lonely Deer, I ended up sticking around for a, uh... few more drinks... they sure know how to party in Snowvein," chuckles Tinder, a shorter Lunari, just a few inches taller than myself. She anxiously tilts her head and rubs her neck. She dons a pair of tawny linen trousers and a white button-up blouse tucked in loosely. A set of blue suspenders sit atop her shoulders, starkly contrasting the black loafers on her feet.