Winter Silversmith Greets the New Day

Winter Silversmith sat in his favourite chair next to a small fire he had built above the rocky river bank. It was near the end of night with not a single bird awake yet to announce the new day. Winter’s sheep, a modest but wooly flock of four he had purchased from a local farmer, were resting quietly in the tall grasslands of the ledge.

Winter Silversmith Relaxing at his home in the River Lands

His new home “the ledge”, as he christened it, was just large enough for all of the things in life he needed. It had a few tall pines for shade, one of which supported a sturdy treehouse. A waterfall nearby provided fresh drinking water and a place to bathe. And, most importantly, there was an abundance of quick growing grass, enough to support five or six mature sheep.

Winter had only lived in his new home for a week when he realized what his favourite pastime would be. “I do prefer the sunsets of the Emerald Forest”, he would tell his sheep “but the sunrises here are quite noteworthy”.

Early in the morn, before the sun began to rise, he would sit in his chair and watch the light change across the land. It started out as night, an ominous black mist as thick as Robert’s stew would choke the reeds along the shoreline.

Then the golden orb of Sol’s fire would begin to escape from the depths of the ocean to the east, still too low behind the tree line to touch the river.

As the clouded sky lightened the black mists would retreat into the mud and be smoothly replaced with a thin purple fog.

By now the small pieces of wood Winter had placed in the fire were reduced to hot white ash with red veins lurking about beneath. Winter would pick up his stick, chosen for this very purpose, and stir the ashes. A small yellow flame would erupt dancing and licking at the blackened stick.

The sky continued its steadfast journey to brightness of day. The light filtered through the dense leaves of the forest and the surf below the falls shimmered a crisp white like freshly fallen snow on the mountains.
By this time the birds began to sing their greetings to the warm sunlight of the new day. The cacophony of bird songs would rain down from the branches high above beckoning the good people of the River Lands to rise and begin their day.

As regular as the sunrise, each morning a Raven would approach from the river to the west and land in the branches of the Maritime Pine above Winter’s chair. After a moment or two of studying the farmer, with one eye and then the other, the Raven would release a chorus of loud cawing. The sound was so bold that the song birds would fall silent after each round, perhaps in shock of this most alarming sound.
And, each morning, Winter would point an accusing finger, or nod his head knowingly at the Raven, as if he understood what was being said. “Master Raven, why must you always be so loud so early in the morn” he would ask. The Raven would cock his head to stare at Winter and reply with one, or two, or three sharp and annoying “caws” in reply.

This conversation would happen each day between Winter and the Raven. Some days the Raven would speak and Winter would reply. Some days Winter would speak and the Raven would reply.
When the sunlight bathed the river banks in sparking light the Raven would fly off high into the clouds above.

The riverbanks would erupt in activity as some citizens drew water for meals while others took a much needed bath. The animals from Can’s farm would lower their heads to take a drink from the clean clear life giving waters. “It is a good time to begin the day” Winter would proclaim, secure in the understanding that the day properly commenced under his supervision.