the city where the clouds are borne
There once was a little boy whose spirit was pure and whose experience led him to believe whole heartedly in man’s ability to do good. He grew up in country, amongst the apple trees and dandelions and learned to respect nature and treat her like a person capable of providing for him, and helping him. He always dreamt of leaving his little orchard town, not because he disliked it, but to see the great and wondrous things nature had put other places in the world.
As he grew older and his dreams more concrete he longed to see what was over the mountains to the west of his home. This is where the thunderstorms and rain and snow came from, and where the sun went after its day of work. One day after he finished all his work, he asked his father and mother if he could find out what was on the other side of the mountains. His mother was a little hesitant having never been over them herself, but his father realizing that his little boy was becoming a man, and that an ignorant man was more dangerous than a trek over the mountains ever could be, granted his consent and wished his son well.
As the sun fell the young man collected up what meager supplies he would carry on his voyage. A flint and steel would be more reliable than matches, and for food he carried little more than a loaf of heavy bread, a block of cheese and a few apples and nuts. He had played a lot in the mountains as a child and knew the terrain well up to a stream where he could camp and refill the wineskin he had brought for water. His parents had also taught his a great deal about the plants that were good to eat and the ones that weren’t. Finally he carried a couple of hooks and a few meters of line should he not find enough nourishment in the plants along his way. He left at dusk, following the moon over the trails he knew, and arrived to the stream well before the moon had set.

by bingo