Atherland

“So, will you?” says the beautiful, blue-eyed mountain, clambering over the tiered seats.

“Will I want?” says Ameli.

“Dance with me,” asks Leo.

“I’m struggling to see you as the dancing type. I’ll have to risk my toes.”

“Are you willing to risk them?”

“Do you really want to dance. This isn’t some bet with your rugby friends?”

“Yeah, because my rugby team is a front for a bunch of hardcore ceilidh dancers.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” says Ameli, standing up, “But I’ll risk it.”No way would Ameli pass on a chance to dance with Leo.

“Raven!”

The booming yell of the King of Piskies, shakes every twig and leaf in Oakland.

Sweeping in, a young man bows with a flourish of his hand. “Father, you called.”

Before the King can respond Raven turns to a round woman in green and the piskling next to her, saying, “Mother you’re a morning bloom. Tulip did you borrow my crown again?”

Touching the oversized white-wood crown on her head, the piskling giggles and says, “You don’t really want it.”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” booms the King.

“Of course, my liege,” says Raven bowing even more extravagantly.