Frisyn moved to the back of the crow’s nest so she could rest against the trunk of the tree. She liked moving, being up a hundred feet into the sky, and it always made her smile in content. The day was fair, horsetail clouds punctuating the blue, a full moon period amongst the commas of clouds. Just enough of a breeze that it blew against her back, even as she and the berm flowed across the landscape. She felt him rumble in contentment too as he picked his way across the valley, ripples following his progress as he flowed beneath the skin of grass and soil. All his trees were raised as he fed on the air, filtering his supper from the tiny organisms gleaned by the needles and branches of his raft of trees.
Frisyn watched from her perch, checking the ebb and flow of errant strands of wind that each branch was fully deployed and combing out all the nutrition it could from each movement. She placed her hand on the trunk.
A Good day today for feeding, I can feel it in the wind.
Yes, the reply came A joyous day, a glorious time to run beneath the earth, to hoist the trees and eat!
She chuckled aloud, and returned to her watch. Though many berms were loners, those who chose a rider were the grandest, fully formed, mighty in strength and character and often were gathered up in the ranges and put on the task of reaching the highest airs, cleaning the top most layers of atmosphere, mantled with the snows of their age and glory. It was an honor to be called into the heights, to wear the snow, and few loners ever attained the recognition.
A crow beat against the wind and headed for the nest. Frisyn sat and watched him approach. A final approach and he landed with style on the edge of the nest, and bowed deeply to her. She bowed her head to him.
“Protocol, protocol.” He demanded and she held out her hand to show the ring of the bond of the riders, crows and berms. It sparkled and flashed, a wide stone, faceted and cleaved, held by ropes of fine silver.
“You know,” the crow remarked, “how very much I await the day you turn that in. Go back to the city Frisyn, and give the ring to me.”
“Silly old crow. The answer is the same as always. As long as I ride Ynkyne and tend his firs, there is nothing that could come between me and him.”
“Pity.” The crow hopped about the rim and moved beside her, facing into the distance.