The Little Bard of Emberglass Quay

Morning light slanted through a forest of wooden masts and tethered balloons at Emberglass Quay. The air-dock buzzed softly with the day’s first stirrings: sails fluttering against the pale blue sky, rope pulleys creaking as sky-boats bobbed in their berths. The scents of salt and spice mingled with engine oil and the sweet aroma of frying dough from a nearby stall. Amidst the multicultural bustle of the dockside market, a petite figure no taller than a foot sat perched on a coil of frayed hemp rope. Delicate wings, like panes of stained glass shaped into flower petals, caught the dawn’s glow as she tuned a tiny lute-flute. In the hush before the crowd fully woke, the little bard’s presence was easily missed by the giant shadows of cargo crates and towering travelers around her.

A deep croak of laughter announced a passing vendor’s approach. “Oy, if it isn’t our morning songbird!” boomed a jovial Ribbet fishmonger, his froggy grin spreading from one webbed ear to the other. He balanced a basket of clams in one hand and waved with the other. The tiny musician looked up from her lute-flute, bright eyes peeking out from beneath a floppy cap adorned with a sprig of clover. She offered the Ribbet a cheerful wave, her smile as warm as the sunrise. Around them, a mechanical Clank inlaid with tarnished brass shuffled by with clanking footsteps, and a Fungril couple—tall, mushroom-capped humanoids—browsed spools of spell-thread at a stall. A red-scaled Drakona woman in rugged leathers strode past carrying a crate as easily as if it were a feather, while a silver-horned Daemon barkeep swept his tavern porch across the way. The Emberglass Quay thrummed with life from every corner of the world, and the tiny bard loved every bit of it.

She hopped to her feet (a mere few inches tall in her ankle boots) and took a moment to stretch. At this size, even a coiled rope made a fine stage. The Ribbet fishmonger paused expectantly, waggling his fingers in encouragement. Others nearby—an elderly human sailor, a Clank deckhand with one squeaky wheel, even a timid Fungril spore-trader—glanced over with knowing smiles. They had heard this bard before and were clearly hoping for a tune. The little bard chuckled, a sound like a tinkling bell. “Alright, alright,” she chimed in a gentle, teasing voice that drifted up to the ears of those around her. “Only because the morning’s too quiet without a song.”

As she lifted her lute-flute to her shoulder, a slender green vine coiled around her right leg tightened ever so slightly, as if bracing itself. The living vine, unnoticed by most as anything more than a decorative stocking, was her constant companion—Veranda—and it always sensed when she was about to play. With a playful wink at the vine, she began to strum.

A soft melody unfurled into the air like the petals of a flower opening to the sun. The notes were bright and calming, carrying the freshness of dew and the promise of a new day. Conversations hushed. A pair of Clank children—little metal constructs with painted faces—peered out from behind their parent’s legs, giggling at the sight of the tiny performer. A stern Daemon guard stopped mid-step, the barbed tip of his tail curling in time with the gentle rhythm. The Ribbet fishmonger closed his eyes and swayed, humming along in a croaky harmony. Laughter and clatter across the quay softened as crew members and merchants alike paused to soak in the tune. The traveling bard had begun her day’s work, though to her it never felt like work at all.

“Lovely as always, CiCi!” called a winged Faerie dockhand from atop a nearby loading crane, using the nickname that had become as much her identity as the name on her birth record. Chrysanthemum Cypress—CiCi to friends and strangers alike—finished her song with a flourish and a little bow. A sprinkle of applause rose up: the gentle clap of a Fungril’s puffball hands, the clink of a Clank tapping its tin fingers together, the enthusiastic ribbeting cheer of the fishmonger. CiCi’s wings fluttered in appreciation, casting tiny rainbow prisms around her.

“Thank you, thank you,” she trilled, her voice carrying despite its small size. One by one, the quay returned to its bustle. Ropes were untied, voices rose again in bargaining, and the spell of the morning melody gave way to the ordinary magic of a busy port. The fishmonger flipped her a shiny copper coin as a tip, which CiCi caught and tucked into her satchel with a grateful nod. A passing Fungril crewmate, towering like a walking toadstool, bowed politely to her. “You make sunrise worth waking up for, Bard,” he rumbled in a voice as earthy as loam, before continuing on his way.

CiCi’s heart swelled with happiness at these small exchanges. This sky-boat dock at the edge of Nevorith was a melting pot of ancestries and cultures, and she cherished being a tiny thread weaving through the vibrant tapestry of people. As the morning wore on, she strolled along the piers (or rather, on the railing of the piers to avoid being underfoot), greeting familiar faces. She nimbly stepped aside as a group of sailors lugged a crate of spice gourds, the scent of pepper and cinnamon wafting behind them. A hulking Clank with moss growing on its shoulder joints gave CiCi a slow, careful nod, mindful of her size. In return, she doffed her little cap to the construct—she had long ago learned not to fear beings of metal and gear, despite her Verdancy upbringing. In fact, she found them fascinating, even if the smell of engine oil still made her nose wrinkle.

The Verdancy ideals that had guided CiCi’s youth taught that all living things were connected and sacred. She had grown up just outside Nevorith, in the ancient woods that locals simply called “the Verdant Forest.” There, beneath emerald canopies and among glowing ferns, she’d learned to revere the harmony of nature. Everyone she knew as a child was either a faerie like her mother or other forest folk attuned to the wild. The outside world—especially a great city like Nevorith—had seemed a chaotic, even dangerous place in the stories. Machines and progress, clashing cultures and loud, conflicting ideals… none of that existed in her quiet grove.

Yet here she was now, living among airships and marketplaces, finding beauty in the very diversity that would astonish her old neighbors. CiCi watched a stern human captain haggle with a Fungril spice trader, their accents thick and different yet their laughter genuine when they finally struck a deal. She sidestepped a trio of chattering Ribbet youths chasing an escaped dragonfly the size of a cat. Overhead, a serpentine sky-boat with billowing sails drifted in for landing, crewed by a motley assortment of Clank, Daemon, and Elf sailors calling out in a half-dozen tongues. Emberglass Quay was cacophonous, colorful, and yes, a little polluted—black soot puffed from a steamboat’s chimney as it docked, and the tang of hot metal from a nearby Technarch repair stall tingled in CiCi’s sensitive nose. But it was also alive in ways her forest home wasn’t. It was a living symphony of culture, and CiCi found quiet wonder in how different notes could blend into unexpected harmony.

Perched now on a barrel by a produce stand, CiCi let herself savor a simple breakfast gifted by a kind Clank vendor—steamed rice rolled in seaweed, a delicacy from a far-off land. She nibbled politely, sharing a few grains with a curious sparrow that landed at her side. The sparrow chirruped in a familiar way and hopped forward, extending its leg. There, tied with a blade of grass, was a tiny rolled note. CiCi’s face lit up. “Right on time,” she whispered, carefully untying the note from the bird’s leg. The sparrow immediately fluttered to a nearby awning to peck at crumbs, awaiting her reply.

Unfurling the minuscule leaf-paper, CiCi read the delicate, looping script written in faerie tongue. Her mother’s daily note. It was as much a ritual as sunrise: every day, a note exchanged between mother and daughter, carried by obliging little birds. She ran a hand gently along Veranda the vine while reading. The note was light and casual in tone—her mother wrote of a new patch of moonlilies blooming by their cottage, of a fox who had taken to napping on the porch. But woven between the cheerful news were lines of concern that made CiCi’s wings droop a fraction. “Heard more rumors of the leylines singing out of tune. Be careful, my little songbird. The Verdancy feels a tremor.” Her mother’s graceful hand conveyed worry that mirrored CiCi’s own fears.

CiCi glanced up from the note, gaze drifting past the bustling market toward the distant silhouette of Nevorith’s skyline. Even from the relative safety of the Quay’s outskirts, one could sense an unease in the air if one was attuned as she was. The leylines—those invisible rivers of magical energy that flowed beneath the earth—were the lifeblood of the Verdancy and all natural magic. Lately, there were stories of something going wrong with them. Travelers muttered of breaking leylines, of spells faltering unexpectedly, of strange pulses in the night. And then there were the time disturbances: bizarre rumors that in certain alleyways of Nevorith, an hour might vanish or a day might repeat, as if time itself hiccuped. CiCi had not experienced these phenomena directly (she mostly kept to the open docks and verdant outskirts, far from the deepest city), but she had noticed a subtle wrongness at times—a shiver in Veranda’s leaves with no breeze, a moment when her heart skipped as if losing the rhythm. It was enough to worry her, deeply.

She let out a slow breath, refolding the note. With a scrap of charcoal pulled from her pocket, she wrote a quick reply on the back of the leaf in the same swirling fae script: reassuring her mother that she was safe, that she would keep her ear open for more news, that she loved her. CiCi mentioned, too, in honest detail the latest dockside rumors: an Aarakocra navigator had sworn his compass spun backward twice last night; a Halfling sailor claimed to have seen the stars flicker out and back on as if someone blinked. Strange and troubling tales—“troubling and strange stories I can’t dismiss,” as she phrased it, echoing what she had overheard. She promised to stay vigilant and ended the note with a little sketch of a smiling sun (a silly habit that always made her mother laugh). Rolling it up, CiCi gave the sparrow a few affectionate head pats and tied the new note to its leg. “Safe flight, little one. Thank you,” she whispered. With a flutter of wings, the messenger bird disappeared into the sky, bound for the green embrace of the forest beyond Nevorith.

The exchange left CiCi both comforted and homesick. She hummed absently to herself, a habit whenever she felt lonely—just a few wandering notes of an old faerie lullaby. Home. She pictured the mossy cottage where she’d grown up, just outside the grand city walls but a world apart. She could almost smell the rosemary her mother hung to dry in the kitchen, the sharp tang of the alchemical brews in her aunt’s workshop next door. Aunt Marigold was an herbalist and alchemist by trade (and a faerie by blood); CiCi remembered how the windows of her aunt’s little apothecary hut would glow warm amber on winter nights, the twin cousins silhouetted in the light as they helped grind herbs or stirred syrupy concoctions. Those twin cousins—how CiCi adored them! Two tiny faerie children, a boy and a girl, with gossamer butterfly wings that glimmered when they chased each other through the ferns. CiCi could almost hear their giggles echoing from memory. She had been an only child, and in those early years her cousins felt like siblings to her. She’d spend hours playing her lute-flute for them, inventing silly songs to coax them to sleep when they were cranky infants. Her first original song had in fact been a lullaby for those very cousins—a soft, repetitive melody about dew drops and kindly ladybugs. It always did the trick to settle them down, especially when Aunt Marigold was at her wit’s end.

CiCi sighed, a mix of joy and melancholy. It had been too long since she’d last seen her aunt and those little ones (not so little now, perhaps; they must have grown wingspans as wide as her arm by this time). Life as a traveling bard kept CiCi moving from port to port, story to story. Her mother remained her closest family connection, through those daily notes and in CiCi’s heart. But sometimes, in the quiet moments after performing, CiCi missed the simple days of family—her gentle mother, her quirky aunt always smelling of lavender and sulfur, the squealing cousins clamoring for “just one more song, CiCi!” before bedtime.

With a shake of her head, CiCi dispelled the cloud of homesickness before it dampened her usually cheerful demeanor. She stood up on the barrel and stretched her tiny arms to the sky until her wings fanned out behind her. The glassy patterns in her dual wings cast flickers of rainbow light on the planks below. A few passing dockworkers smiled at the whimsical sight of the little faerie-halfling greeting the sun with such abandon. CiCi grinned and fluttered into the air, letting the morning breeze carry her a few feet over to a higher perch — the broad shoulder of a marble statue that marked the entrance to the Quay’s central marketplace. Light on her feet, she landed and folded her wings, feeling quite like a songbird on a branch.

From this vantage point, CiCi could see much of the Seaborne air-dock spread before her. The market was now in full swing. Bright pennants in every color hung from ship masts and shop eaves. A Clank street performer whirred to life nearby, entertaining a small crowd with juggling and occasional puffs of steam from its top hat. The scent of baking bread from a halfling-run bakery mingled with the brine of the nearby sea below the cliffs. Everywhere voices overlapped—shouts of sailors, chatter of merchants, gossip and laughter and the occasional scolding of an over-eager pet (one Fungril scolded a spiky mushroom creature that was chewing on a table leg). It was chaotic, but not in a bad way. CiCi felt her vine companion Veranda uncurl slightly, one of its tiny leaves brushing against her ankle as if to say all this noise, but we are okay. She gave the vine a comforting pat. “It’s a lively morning, isn’t it, Veranda?” she murmured fondly. Veranda’s leaves rustled in agreement—at least, CiCi liked to pretend it was agreement. In truth, the vine rarely made its own movements obvious in public. Most onlookers assumed the emerald green tendril wrapping around her leg was just part of her floral attire. Only CiCi knew that this small vine was a true friend, one she tended to daily and carried with her as a piece of home. It was a hardy little thing, content to live coiled on her like a living stocking. In quieter moments, away from prying eyes, Veranda would sometimes stretch out, perhaps to sip dew from a cup or to wrap CiCi in a gentle vine hug when she was sad. That secret companionship warmed CiCi now as she gazed over the bustling air-dock.

A sudden commotion near the tavern caught CiCi’s attention. A pair of sailors—one Ribbet, one Daemon—stumbled out the tavern door in a heated argument, each accusing the other of cheating at cards. For a tense moment, it looked as though a brawl might erupt. The Daemon’s tail lashed and the Ribbet puffed up angrily, their raised voices silencing nearby conversations. CiCi’s heart skipped; she leaned forward on the statue’s shoulder, gripping the stone with tiny hands. Conflict always unsettled her—perhaps because in the Verdancy, serious violence was rare and swiftly quelled by the community. Here, out in the wider world, such scuffles were more common. As the two sailors squared off, CiCi found herself instinctively humming a quick, calming arpeggio under her breath. Just a few notes, barely audible beyond her immediate area, but laced with a subtle magic that carried a feeling of peace. A breeze swept through the market, catching wind chimes and loose paper scraps, as if to carry that hint of melody between the quarrelers.

The Ribbet sailor blinked, his bulbous throat deflating as his anger ebbed. The Daemon furrowed his brow, looking momentarily confused as the hot rage in his eyes cooled. Neither quite understood why, but the urge to fight seeped out of them. An orcish dockmaster quickly intervened then, placing a firm hand on each sailor’s shoulder and rumbling, “Take it easy, gents. First bell isn’t even rung and you’re at blows?” The would-be brawlers grumbled, shot each other one last glare, and slunk off in opposite directions to cool down. Disaster averted.

CiCi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It was nothing, just a tiny conflict defused before it truly began, but it reminded her keenly of why she did what she did. The world had plenty of strife; if her music could ease even a little of it, she would play gladly until her fingers were sore. In her dream of a peaceful sanctuary, no one would be able to harm another. She imagined, not for the first time, a special haven she might one day cultivate: a grand garden hidden in the heart of the Verdancy or perhaps floating among the clouds, filled with wildflowers, gentle streams, and dwellings of mossy wood. In that sanctuary, there would lie an enchanted barrier over the land like a permanent, gentle spell—one that meant no blade could cut, no fist could bruise. People could come from anywhere in the world to share stories and songs, to heal and rest, leaving all aggression at the gate. They could disagree, even squabble, but violence would simply be impossible there. CiCi’s heart fluttered at the thought of it. How she would love to invite everyone she cared about to live there with her—her mother and aunt, her little cousins, the friends she’d made from so many ancestries, even those two silly sailors once they learned to get along. Someday, she promised herself quietly. It was a far-off vision, perhaps, but one she nurtured like a precious seed.

With the small drama over, CiCi decided to hop down from the statue perch and stretch her legs through the marketplace proper. It wouldn’t be long before she was due aboard the next outgoing sky-boat to perform for afternoon passengers. But she had a bit of time, and she loved weaving through the crowds, immersing herself in the microcosm of cultures that gathered here.

She passed by a stall selling mechanical trinkets and clockwork birds, run by a friendly Clank with a perpetual whirr. The Clank artisan gave her a wave of a jointed metal hand, and CiCi mustered a polite smile despite the faint haze of smoke that made her wings itch. Pollution and the corruption of nature were her greatest fears, and in moments like this—smelling the oil and seeing black soot stains on the cobbles—she felt that pang of worry. Even so, she reminded herself that not all technology meant harm. The Clank vendor was using his craft to bring little joys (those clockwork birds were awfully cute, hopping and chirping convincingly). Harmony and peace, CiCi thought, between nature and progress—surely it’s possible. She disliked the conflict between her Verdancy and the Technarch engineers of the city; in her ideal future, they’d find common ground. For now, she kept her smile and moved along, preferring the next row of stalls where potted plants and herbal teas perfumed the air more to her liking.

Near a booth draped in ivy (one of CiCi’s favorite spots, as it reminded her of home), she overheard a snatch of conversation between two passing scholars laden with scrolls. “...temple in the city center completely cut off from its leyline, can you imagine?” one was saying in an urgent whisper. “And the time anomaly reported in the Clockwork Quarter—if that isn’t an ill omen, I don’t know what is,” the other replied. CiCi paused by the ivy booth, pretending to examine a jar of honey, and strained to hear more. The scholars hurried on, voices fading, but their words left goosebumps on CiCi’s arms. A temple cut off from the leyline… the very idea made her wings tremble. She closed her eyes a moment, centering herself. In the Verdancy, one could feel the leylines humming in the background of life, steady as a heartbeat. If they were truly breaking or being severed, it would be like cutting veins in the world’s body. No wonder her mother and community were concerned.

A gentle squeeze on her ankle drew CiCi from her dark reverie. Veranda’s vine had tightened comfortingly, sensing her distress. CiCi reached down to stroke one of its tiny leaflets. “I know,” she whispered to her companion. “I’m worried too. But we’ll find a way to help. We have to.” Her voice held a determined melody, quiet but resolute. Protector of nature—that was how she saw herself, in whatever humble capacity a 12-inch bard could be. If the world’s magic was hurting, she would do what she could to soothe it, just as she soothed a crying child or a feuding sailor. It’s everyone’s responsibility to care for the planet, but if others won’t, I’ll step up, she vowed internally, echoing the conviction that had taken root in her soul.

She continued through the market, trying not to dwell too grimly on the scholars’ ominous gossip. To brighten her mood, CiCi sought out the large notice board near the docks where travel routes, ship schedules, and news tidbits were posted. Perhaps there’d be a new sky-boat crew in town with fresh stories to hear. Sure enough, a new flyer caught her eye: “The Celestial Gale – Arrived from Eastern Isles; Seeking Passengers and Performers for Voyage to the Singing Reefs.” CiCi’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. The Celestial Gale… she’d heard of that ship, famous for its crystal sails and the mixed ancestry crew that ran it. If she recalled correctly, a jolly Fungril quartermaster served on board, one who adored sharing tales. Her mind drifted to one of her fondest memories: an evening spent on a different sky-boat’s deck, under lanternlight, listening to a talkative Fungril crewmate recount the legends of his people. He spoke of the great Mycelial Network, an invisible web connecting all Fungril across distances—how they could sense one another’s songs through the earth. CiCi had listened with rapt attention, chiming in with her own lute here and there to underscore the magic of his words. The Fungril’s stories of spore dances and mushroom groves that glowed under full moons had resonated with her. So like the Verdancy and yet so different, she had thought at the time. They ended that night laughing over cultural misunderstandings and shared sentiments, and CiCi realized how much she loved crews made of all types. Those mixed crews carried the wildest adventures and broadest knowledge, as diverse and wondrous as a wild garden. Perhaps that’s why she gravitated to sky-boats and port life—out here, she could meet everyone. And every friend she made, of any ancestry, became a reason she wanted to protect this world’s future.

CiCi tore a little tab from the flyer as a reminder to find the Celestial Gale later. Tucking it into her satchel, her fingers brushed against another scrap of paper already there, one with an old tavern’s name scrawled on it. She winced slightly, remembering. That tavern performance… it had truly gone awry. It was a few months back, when a kindly old Faerie captain had taken her under his wing. Captain Aurelin had seen CiCi playing on the docks and, being a fellow fae (though one who had lived in the city so long he was more city-slicker than sprite), he offered to show her around Nevorith proper. CiCi, ever curious, agreed eagerly. It was exciting to have a mentor of sorts and to explore beyond the Quay’s relative safety. He’d led her through towering marble archways and bustling city squares, all the way to an upscale tavern in the heart of Nevorith. There, among clinking glasses and a far less familiar crowd, Captain Aurelin encouraged CiCi to perform on the tavern stage.

CiCi’s stomach fluttered at the memory of standing on that polished oak stage, under chandelier light, looking out at the well-dressed city folk who had not been expecting a one-foot-tall bard to appear. She had felt so nervous—so out of water, like a minnow in a dragon’s pond. Still, she’d gathered her courage and started to play a jaunty faerie tune. But her anxiety made her fingers slip on the strings. The melody came out twangy and uneven. A few patrons snickered. One called out, “We can’t even hear you, pixie!” and another chimed in with a hoot of laughter. Heat had rushed to CiCi’s cheeks; her voice caught in her throat. She managed only a few shaky verses before a swell of embarrassed tears blurred her vision and she abruptly ended the song. Laughter (not the good kind) followed her as she fled, wings drooping, from the stage. Captain Aurelin had swooped her up gently and whisked her outside before she could hear more unkind comments.

Even now, CiCi felt the sting of that humiliation. It was the first time her music had been openly mocked, and it nearly snuffed out her confidence for a spell. If not for the support of the captain and the comforting letters from her mother afterwards, she might have retreated back to the Verdancy for good. She learned a hard lesson that night about the world beyond her familiar docks: not everyone would be kind, not everyone would appreciate her gifts. The city’s inner circles could be… harsher. Since then, CiCi had mostly kept to her beloved Quay and the sky-boats, where travelers were more welcoming and her heart felt safe. She resolved she wouldn’t venture that deep into Nevorith again without a very good reason. The scrap in her satchel bore the tavern’s name—a reminder of humility and of how far she’d come since that day. With a firm nod to herself, CiCi let that memory go. One failed performance would not define her. Far more often, her music brought joy and even unexpected magic.

CiCi had experienced how powerful her songs could be on happier occasions. She recalled a misty evening at the docks when she’d been idly plucking a sorrowful tune, inspired by homesickness, as a lone sailor listened from a ship’s railing. When she finished, she’d heard a strangled sob: the burly sailor—tough as old boots—was weeping openly. Alarmed, CiCi flew over, thinking she’d offended him, but he thanked her through tears. “That song… it reminded me of something I thought I’d forgotten,” he’d said. He spoke of a memory of his childhood, of a music box his grandmother had. CiCi’s melody unwittingly echoed its lullaby. They ended up sharing a quiet conversation about loved ones far away, and the sailor promised to write a letter home after many years of silence. CiCi had floated back to her bed that night with her heart full, marvelling that her simple song could move someone so deeply. Magical performances indeed—though CiCi knew it wasn’t just magic, but the genuine feelings behind the music that reached people.

Not all of CiCi’s magic was so gentle, however. In addition to the enchanting melodies of her lute-flute and voice, she possessed a more... peculiar gift from her faerie heritage. It was an ability she kept secret and in reserve—one she thought of as her last resort. Deep in her small chest, near her ribs, were special membranes known as tymbals (like those of a cicada or cricket). With effort and a particular motion (she would rub her legs or wings just so), CiCi could produce a jarring, high-pitched sound that was nothing like her usual sweet music. It was a harsh, thrumbling buzz that could rattle the teeth of a creature many times her size. If her normal songs were a gentle brook, this tymbal cry was a rockslide. She hated the noise it made—discordant and alarming—but she kept it in mind for flight emergencies and dire situations. Thankfully, she’d never had to unleash it fully. The closest she came was one twilight when an overzealous gull mistook her for a brightly-colored dragonfly and swooped at her. CiCi had darted away in fright, and Veranda clung to her leg tightly as she nearly buzzed her tymbal in panic. In the end she instead dove into a coil of ropes and hid until the gull flew off, sparing everyone within earshot a splitting headache. CiCi promised herself she would only ever use that power if she had absolutely no other escape—perhaps to stop a pursuing predator or to sound a last alarm. After all, her tymbal music was completely different from what she loved; it had no warmth, no melody, only shock and force. Using it even briefly would feel like betraying her own musical spirit. Still, in a strange way, knowing it was there—like a small thorn she could unsheathe—gave her a measure of comfort. She could defend herself if truly needed, even if her preferred defense was to not be noticed or to charm potential threats with a kinder tune.

As midday edged toward afternoon, CiCi fluttered over to one of the loading ramps where passengers were beginning to board a medium-sized sky-boat bound for a neighboring isle. The vessel, The Wandering Breeze, was one she knew well and loved. Its crew was a cheerful medley of ancestries: a gruff Orc captain with a gentle heart, an academic Elf first mate who loved puzzles, a mischievous pair of Ribbet twins who handled navigation by feeling the moisture in the air, and even a baby Fungril on board (the ship’s cook was a Fungril and carried her infant bundled in soft moss on her back as she worked). CiCi had traveled with them before, singing for their passengers in exchange for passage. She admired how the crew functioned like a family despite all their differences. And the stories they told around their communal dinner! One night CiCi heard about how the orc captain once squared off against an air kraken, and another time the Elf first mate described the constellations from his homeland, each star with a legend. CiCi felt a pang of anticipation—perhaps she would hitch a short ride today and gather more tales.

As she hovered near the gangplank, the Orc captain spotted her and gave a tusked grin. “CiCi! Decided to join us again, eh?” he called out in a voice that was more warm than gruff. He extended a huge hand, palm up, and CiCi landed lightly on it, allowing him to lift her aboard with the other embarking passengers. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to sail with my favorite crew,” she replied with a wink, hands on her hips in mock-heroic stance (which made the Orc chuckle; at her size it looked endearing rather than imposing). The captain introduced her to a few new passengers as “our resident songbird—best bard this side of Nevorith,” which made CiCi blush and Veranda coil shyly around her leg. She took up her customary spot on a barrel by the railing once on deck, unpacking her lute-flute. In minutes, The Wandering Breeze cast off, rising with a cheer from the passengers as the dock fell away beneath them.

CiCi played a jaunty farewell tune as Emberglass Quay slowly shrank below. The sky-boat’s crystal engine hummed, the sails filled with breeze, and off they glided into open sky. From above, the Quay was a patchwork of piers and rooftops clinging to the edge of a turquoise sea. CiCi watched the tiny figures of dockworkers and market-goers move like a colorful ant colony. Somewhere down there, perhaps that intimidating Drakona woman was still overseeing her crew’s cargo or negotiating a deal. CiCi thought of her—the Drakona captain who docked frequently at Emberglass and carried an aura of adventure. CiCi had observed her from afar many times: a tall, commanding woman with bronze scales catching the light, a scar over one eye, and a hearty laugh that could echo across the harbor. Rumor said she might be a pirate, but if so, she was a peculiar sort who treated her crew like beloved kin. CiCi admired how the Drakona woman spoke to her crew with genuine respect and faith, even as she barked orders. There was a kindness beneath her fearsome exterior; CiCi could tell by the way she’d once seen the woman ruffle a young deckhand’s hair for a job well done, or how she paid the tavern cook extra to make sure her crew ate well. CiCi felt in her gut that she could trust this woman with her life if it came down to it, though she was far too shy to approach and say hello. Perhaps one day their paths would cross properly. Until then, CiCi was content to admire from a distance, spinning little imaginary stories of the Drakona’s daring exploits as fodder for future songs.

As The Wandering Breeze sailed further from the city, CiCi’s music shifted to something more wistful, almost unconsciously. She was watching the horizon now, where clouds drifted lazily and the sun’s rays made a golden road on the sea below. Her thoughts wandered to the unknown future. The sky ahead was brilliant and blue, but somewhere beyond the visible, dark things lurked—faltering leylines, time slipping askew, perhaps even conflict between those who would exploit nature and those who would protect it. CiCi’s fingers found a familiar, haunting chord on her lute-flute. A quiver went through her small frame as she played a few bars of that melody—the secret one, the melancholy song she kept just for herself. The notes hung in the air, pure and aching, carrying all the weight of sorrow she’d ever felt. It was the melody that had come to her when she was just a child at her first brush with death: when an elderly faerie in her community, someone she loved like a grandfather, had passed away. Young as she was, CiCi had heard this tune rise from the depths of her heart and had played it out loud in the communal glade, tears in her eyes. The magic that answered was unlike any she’d summoned before—fireflies had gathered though it was daytime, the wind had stilled, and everyone present felt a gentle tug of shared mourning, as if their grief was one united thing. That was the first time CiCi realized her music could truly move magic and emotion together. It scared her a little, how powerful it was. Ever since, she reserved that particular melody for only the most private moments of sadness or remembrance. Today, only a whisper of it escaped her—just a few notes before she caught herself and stopped. A tear had formed at the corner of her eye, unbidden. Veranda’s vine curled up to her knee in a vine-hug, sensing the melancholy. And to her surprise, CiCi realized a teenage cabin boy nearby had paused in his rope coiling, brow furrowed as if suddenly emotional without knowing why. She had been so quiet, yet even that fragment of her private melody had brushed a stranger’s heart. CiCi quickly wiped her eyes and shifted her tune to a lighter refrain, leaving the cabin boy blinking and rubbing his face in confusion. That was close, she thought, resolving to save the rest of that lament for when she was truly alone. The world was not ready to hear her soul cry out in full—and she’d be mortified if anyone caught her in such a raw state, to be honest.

Afternoon turned to dusk as CiCi played and mingled aboard The Wandering Breeze. The short journey was a balm to her spirit; laughter and applause followed each song, and she traded jokes with the crew. There was even a moment of gentle humor when one of the Ribbet twins attempted to teach her a ribbiting folk song—her attempt to croak the chorus like a frog had everyone rolling with laughter, CiCi included. By the time the sky-boat looped back to Emberglass Quay in the early evening (it was a tour voyage after all, ending where it began), CiCi felt rejuvenated. She bid the crew and passengers farewell, promising to sail with them again soon, and fluttered down to the docks as lanterns were being lit one by one along the pier.

Twilight at the Quay was one of CiCi’s favorite times. The hectic energy of the day mellowed into something more magical. The emberglass lanterns—for which the Quay was named—glowed with a soft orange hue, reflecting on the water and the polished hulls of docked ships. Fireflies (or perhaps tiny lightning-bug faeries, one never knew for sure) twinkled among the rafters and riggings. A cool breeze carried the mingled scents of night-blooming jasmine and the last whiffs of dinner stew from tavern windows. CiCi wandered to the edge of the dock, where the world felt open and the stars were just beginning to peek out overhead.

She sat down with her legs dangling over the edge of the pier, feet swinging idly far above the dark water. Veranda draped lazily around her like an old friend, one leaf dipping into the seawater below to sip. CiCi plucked a final soft tune on her lute-flute, a lullaby to mark the day’s end. As she gazed out into the gathering night, her mind was full of quiet reflection. So many stories she’d heard, so many more to learn. Worries too, yes—the leylines, the odd flickers of time, the knowledge that not everyone valued peace as she did. But in the gentle lap of waves against the dock and the steady glow of the emberglass lights, CiCi found hope. The world was vast and mysterious, but it was also breathtakingly beautiful and brimming with good souls.

Her music trailed off into silence. In that silence, something faint reached her on the breeze—a sound just at the edge of hearing. CiCi tilted her head, antennae fine-tuned (if anyone asked, she’d say her braided hairpins were decorative, but they actually helped her hear changes in the wind). There it was: a distant note, a chord resonating through the night air, so low and deep one might mistake it for the creak of a ship or a whale’s call. But CiCi felt it stir inside her chest. It almost sounded like the earth itself humming a lullaby, or a warning. She couldn’t tell which... only that it was calling to her. Veranda’s vine quivered, each leaf perked as if listening too. CiCi rose slowly to her feet, peering into the darkness beyond the harbor lights. Far across the water and sky, thunder rumbled—or was it something else? That note... it resonated with the leylines, she was sure of it. Perhaps a mysterious sign of the troubles her mother wrote of, or a beckoning for those willing to safeguard what was sacred.

CiCi took a deep breath, the night air filling her lungs. She felt a familiar mix of excitement and trepidation tingling in her fingertips. Whatever lay ahead—broken leylines, time quirks, or unseen challenges—she knew she wouldn’t face them alone. She had her music, her Verdancy-given purpose, and friends in every port. She had a dream to strive for, a sanctuary of peace someday to nurture. And right now, she had a feeling in her gut (or perhaps in her heart) that her journey was about to take a new turn.

“Come on, Veranda,” she whispered, gently twirling the vine around her like a favorite ribbon. The little bard stood at the very edge of the dock, a tiny silhouette against the starry expanse. Her wings unfurled, catching the orange lamplight in a shimmer of colors. “Do you hear it? The world is singing to us tonight.” There was no fear in her voice, only wonder—and a hint of resolve.

CiCi closed her eyes and let out a single, pure note from her lips, a promise carried on the wind. In it was the echo of every lullaby and every courageous chorus she knew. The distant hum answered softly, almost approvingly. When she opened her eyes, the horizon seemed to glow for just a moment, as if something out there had quietly lit a beacon just for her.

Chrysanthemum “CiCi” Cypress smiled, her decision made. Cradling her lute-flute close, she stepped off the dock and took flight into the cool night air. The tiny bard’s figure rose and then drifted forward, following the pull of that unseen melody with curiosity and courage. Behind her, Emberglass Quay’s lights twinkled like a warm farewell. Ahead, the darkness was vast, speckled with stars and possibilities. CiCi vanished into that great wide night, a gentle guardian on the wing, her heart set on protecting the fragile song of nature wherever it was threatened.

And as she disappeared, one could almost swear the wind whispered a secret refrain in her wake—a promise of sanctuary, a hint of the haven she would one day help create. The journey was just beginning, and the night held mysteries yet to unfold.