Love the soul, for it is constant where all else is fluid. Rúna kept the proverb close at heart, a reminder always of the teachings of her people, even if she didn't yet have practice the way her older kin did. She was just past thirty summers, still young and full of her mother's legendary hot-headedness, her art nowhere near mastery.

She lay comfortably in the lush grass, back against the rise of the hill. Above, the azure sky boasted only a few wisps of cloud, a far cry from the ice and snow of the storm wall surrounding her home. Here in Stormhenge, the weather was always summer, a gift from the gods. The sun would soon set, which she looked forward to. It would descend out of view behind the clouds, but it would paint the sky in breath-taking shades.

It was good to be out of armor, though she still smelled like steel and leather. A cool breeze rustled through the leaves above, dipping low enough to stir her silver hair.

"Rúna!"

She levered herself up when she heard that tone in her mother's voice. Apparently her neglect of her combat lesson had been noticed. She sprang up to her feet, wincing as her abused ribs made their displeasure known. Steinnvor's last lesson had done a number on them. Even using a sword blunted and wooden, a blow to unarmored ribs hurt quite a bit.

"Coming!" she called despite her reluctance, loping in that direction and bringing the true beauty of Stormhenge into view. The city was built organically into cliffs of grey stone, resplendent with hanging gardens fed by dazzling waterfalls. There were layers upon layers of buildings, joined by delicate arches of walkways that rose hundreds of feet high in places. Everywhere, verdant green met striking, bright colors. Delicate statues decorated the promenades rising from the ground, many of them representing the spirits of ancestors. Lanterns wrapped in colored glass would light as the world dimmed, though they were extinguished at midnight so that the beauty of the moon and stars could be observed.

Her mother was waiting on the path, a delicate arch of stone forty feet across covered with a swirling mural of a river, a hundred shades of blue tiles also glittering with flecks of gold in the evening sunlight between the banks of swirling script on either side, prayers to the Song of Dawn, the Lord and Lady of Beauty.

Tóla Sveinsdóttir stood with her arms crossed, waiting. She wore her silver hair in a long braid now that she was not at war, her snow-white skin painted with delicate lines in dark green, swirling and weaving patterns designed to enchant. Her eyes, black from corner to corner, were at least not narrowed with anger. Her only clothing was the normal wraps of cloth down over one shoulder to cover her torso and then around her hips, covering her to mid-thigh, this time in deep emerald shade. Her mother's time around the races beside her own had imprinted something of modesty in her, though she was wont to dispose of such coverings often.

Rúna stepped out from the green growth, the warmth of sun-warmed stone welcome beneath her bare feet. "Did you need me?" she asked. "I know I'm not with Steinnvor, but—"

"It's important for you to train, Rúna," her mother said firmly. "You will need those skills someday. Steinnvor is the most gifted of all of us with steel-weaving."

"Not the most gifted teacher," Rúna muttered. When she saw her mother's eyes narrow as if she'd caught that, she said quickly, "My ribs still hurt. As soon as they're better, I will."

"You're excused for this week," Tóla said, softening slightly. She knew that the injury was one of the more painful ones that Rúna had acquired, at least since she'd broken her collarbone. "Your father was going to have you study another form anyway."

Rúna beamed, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "Really? Where?"

"The aerie," Tóla said, grinning when her daughter immediately sprinted off to find her father. After all, she would have done the same at Rúna's age.

For all her complaints about her ribs, Rúna raced upwards along the walkways fast enough that she could feel lightning bolts of agony through her side. It did nothing to dissuade her, not when she had the chance to do something she'd dreamed of doing since the first time she saw her mother take to wing.

She was out of breath when she reached the aerie, a tall tower that housed many of Stormhenge's birds. The higher one climbed, the larger and more dangerous the avians became. At its peak were Arnfastr and Geira, a mating pair of red eagles. They were to be approached with reverence and deference, their beauty and power enough to pose a danger to anyone approaching.

Rúna panted for a moment or two, then stepped into the hollow stone pillar. The floor was cleaner than she expected, a sign that the keepers were attending to the mess. She took the stairs two at a time, quickly reaching the first observation ledge. The tower had great empty archways that allowed the sun and fresh air to pour in and birds to flit out as pleased them. Trees were woven into the very construction, fed by the magics left by the Song of Dawn more than a thousand years prior, before the great cataclysm that had damaged so much of the world.

Her father sat on a stone bench, relaxed and thoughtful. No doubt his mind had strayed to poems and songs. Poetry was his gift and he honed such skills well. Dálkr turned and grinned. "A swifter response to a summons I have never seen," he said, voice deep and resonant. He fed the tiny song birds with a scattering of grain. He gestured to the birds as he continued, "Tell me, child of the sunflowers, are you ready to learn from them?"

Rúna was almost bouncing up and down with excitement. "I am the daughter of Tóla Sveinsdóttir, she who is called Sky-Dancer. I was born ready," she said proudly.

"Good answer," her father said with a smile. "Now, if we move too much in our true forms, we will scatter them. Take the form equal to a human."

She nodded and then concentrated. Without the benefit of experience, even basic alterations to her shape required concentration and will. She envied her elders who could do it so effortlessly. The only forms she had a good grip on were the shapes of the dire wolf and the great winter bear. The wolf was Steinnvor's favorite shape and her father loved the form of the bear—which was also necessary to move through the storm that surrounded their home. She focused on the flow of energy through her body and pushed, coaxing herself to change. The air around her wavered as her essence did. She lost herself in Creation for a moment, but the tug of her change brought her back in a different fashion.

"I feel short," Rúna murmured. She wasn't particularly good at mimicking other races, as she'd never actually seen anyone other than giants. Her current shape matched her true form in everything but size. She rubbed along her cheekbone, fingertips following a rippling pattern inked in red.

Dálkr chuckled. "Everything is short to a giant. Come, let us introduce you to your model, the nightingale."

"I thought it would be a hawk, like Modir's forms," Rúna said curiously as she followed him across the ledge to the trees carefully tended inside the pillar.

"Perhaps in time, but I think this will suit you better. You are good with a blade, sunflower, but you're far too gentle to enjoy the life of a warrior," her father said. He nudged her with an elbow. "Your sneaking out of combat lessons to watch the healers hasn't been particularly subtle."

"I don't know why I'll need to fight," she said, taking a seat beneath the boughs of the tree. The birds trilled and warbled as if trying to outdo each other and she watched them with unabashed fascination. The core of learning new forms, or at least the animal ones, was exhaustive study of their shape, their movement and musculature, their behaviors, the essence of their being. It also took a great deal of practice to shift and get everything right, or at least that was Rúna's experience.

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"Because the world beyond Stormhenge is not safe, and someday you will walk it. We want you ready for anything that might come your way. Better to have those skills and not need them than need them and not have them."

Rúna felt a twinge of worry and looked over at her father. "I don't want to leave yet," she said.

Her father reached out, brushing some of her silver hair back out of her face. "That is a while from now, Rúna. You will adventure when you are ready, and you will return with countless stories to tell." He smiled at her, offering the comfort of his confidence in her. "The weave and weft of your fate is watched over by the Shining One. You need never fear so long as you have faith in that and in yourself."

She nodded. It did ease her fears to hear her father talk with such confidence in her. "I'll do my best, Fader."

He smiled. "You always do. Now, the nightingale is that one there. Tell me what you think of the lovely bird. What do you see of its soul?"

Rúna focused on the little bird. He had drab, brownish plumage and an unassuming manner. She almost might have looked past him, sleeping on the branch, if she hadn't been told to look at him. "He does not have the colors of other males, except for that reddish tail. He is born and bred with no need to announce himself to the world by brilliant colors."

"And why do you think that is?"

She smiled. "His midnight silver song charms the ladies of his kind far more than any puffed up plumage could," Rúna said. She moved to sit cross-legged on the bench, forgetting completely about the pain in her ribs as she studied the little bird. His deep, even breathing moved his feathered breast in and out, which struck her as adorable. She would have reached out to pet him, but she didn't want to wake him. The birds here had no fear of the giants who fed and tended to them, though the great eagles could hardly be considered tame. It was more that they shared the giant's respect. Every bird could pass wherever they pleased in Stormhenge, but many made their home in the trees woven into this building, soothed by the hum of Creation as it flowed through the air.

Growing up in Stormhenge meant magic was to Rúna as water was to a fish. She had heard enough stories of the world beyond that told of vast distances where magic was barely present, though Ash Kordh had many places where the world was in tune with Creation, called khiirdu by the orcs. Places where the world did not fit as far as the little folk were concerned, but to a giant, the flow and eddies of magic in such areas felt more like home than the mundane nature of the rest of the world.

And further south? From what she had heard, Creation could scarcely be felt at all. She wasn't sure if she pitied or if she admired the people that made their homes in places so disconnected. Perhaps the feeling was both.

If she was being honest, she was anxious about how she would get along with the little folk. Steinnvor's advice seemed sound. Hide your true nature and observe until you feel you understand them enough to pass—and know that this might take years. She was eager to learn their shapes and experience their world, but her heart was in Stormhenge. 

Those thoughts and worries, so frequent in her mind, vanished as she fixed her all on the nightingale. She and her father stepped away long enough to dine, but returned at nightfall. Her nightingale was now awake and animated, hopping about.

Rúna sat crosslegged on the floor with her back against the smooth stone of the bench, looking up at the tiny bird and waiting eagerly to hear his song. At human size, she did nothing to disturb the birds the way a larger form would.

Finally, the nightingale ruffled his feathers, pulled in a deep breath, and then sang. Trilling, melodic song floated in the air like featherlight, silver notes. The flow of Creation ambient in the area rendered the acoustics incredible, responding to the little bird's love song as he hopped towards a female.

Rúna felt the beauty of the song wind itself around her heart. Her father was right: this appealed very much to her nature. After a minute or two, she realized that her face ached from smiling. Her attention hardly wavered, however. She watched every ruffling of his wings and hop on the branch, listened to his voice as if her life depended on it.

Beauty came in myriad forms as far as Rúna was concerned. Her nightingale was a delicate incarnation, but for his diminutive stature was no less a creature imbued with Mode's splendor than any other. Rúna loved the fragile, ephemeral forms most of all. Someday, she would have mastery enough to flow from one to the next.

For now, though, she picked up a feather from the nightingale and brushed fingertips across it. It was soft and delicate, something to study more. She tucked it behind one ear and resumed her observation. As he serenaded, she produced some grain. Most of the birds slept now, but she saw him turn dark eyes towards her hand. The nightingale trilled and then swooped down to her side.

Rúna cupped her hand to better hold the seeds. Before she could raise her other hand to scatter some for him, he hopped onto her finger and began eating out of her hand unafraid.

"They know their spirit-kin," Dálkr said with a smile. "You and he are much alike, Rúna."

She stayed stock-still, studying every little movement, whether he was eating or pausing momentarily to preen. "Do you think so?" she asked softly. She was awed not only by the grace of the little bird, but by his bravery. Even being fed, a little songbird had much to fear from the large things of the world.

"I do," her father said. "In your songs, if nothing else."

Rúna smiled. That was the one thing she loved above all other disciplines she had been trained in. Whether scrubbing floors, mending clothes, studying forms, or running about Stormhenge, she was forever singing. Her mother would always look over at her father and say it was his influence, but the truth was that her people as a whole valued art as part of being a complete soul. Everyone had their gifts, their expressions of the divine.

The nightingale ate his fill and settled down a little more on her finger, but instead of dozing, he watched her curiously.

Rúna pursed her lips for a moment and let out a soft fluting whistle, an imitation of part of his song. The reaction in her little friend was fascination. He puffed out his feathers and launched into another melody. This time it became a duet, though the giant let him lead, offering accompaniment. As she did, she studied every tremor in his throat and chest, the pitches that he warbled, the delicate movement of his feet on her finger, the brush of his feathers as he fluttered his wings and otherwise danced.

"I think he appreciates the lively competition," Dálkr said with a chuckle. "Particularly after a fine dinner."

Rúna let him win their little sparring match, stroking his soft chest with one tentative finger. She was pleasantly surprised that he allowed it. "You are a very fine bird, minstrel," she said with a warm smile. "I look forward to learning much more from you. Maybe one day soon we will fly together."

Soon, of course, could mean anything from weeks to years. Flying was difficult to master, a whole different musculature to learn along with a great many senses to be honed. All giants were well schooled in things like balance and coordination, but those went only so far. The nightingale took wing then, soaring upward and leaving them to talk.

"You are a quick study when you wish to be," Dálkr said, placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Not at combat," Rúna murmured. She always felt a twinge of shame at that. Both of her parents were famed warriors, bold and battle-loving.

"You are the equal of many a human warrior," Dálkr said. "Once you have better mastery of the spear, your mother and I agreed that you should spend half that training time with the healers."

"Really?" the girl said hopefully.

"Really," her mother said as she approached from the side. She took a seat on Rúna's other side. Tóla fixed her daughter with a stern look. "I expect you to keep to your steel-weaving too." She softened slightly. "We want you safe, but happy. Whatever path you walk, you will always be our child."

Rúna beamed. "I won't disappoint," she promised.

Tóla brushed some of her daughter's silver hair out of her face. "Be true to who you are, and that will never be a danger," her warrior mother said. "The world needs nightingales just as it needs hawks."

"Indeed," Dálkr agreed. He gave Rúna a one-armed hug. "It is important to know who you are, when all else is fluid."

It was a lesson always taught. For all her youth, Rúna was comfortable exploring the differences between genders, even though she had settled on female as her true self from a young age. Still, she admired the male form and found it beneficial from time to time. To a giant, there was no boundary there, every person among them expressing traits of both and freely changing from one to the other when it better suited the soul. Her father was one such giant, born female but with a soul more oriented to masculinity, to the point of a shift.

She had heard vaguely from Steinnvor that the little folk, trapped in their forms as they were, had no such freedom to become who they truly were when things did not match, save by crushing parts of their bodies and "masquerading" as what they truly were when the world demanded they be otherwise. If there was one thing Rúna would change about the small folk, it would be that. How unhappy it would be.

Find beauty in all things, the proverb went, for that is where one finds the divine.

The young giant smiled, her thoughts turning again to the songbird that had graced her with her presence. "I will be the best nightingale I can be," she promised.

"That's my girl," Tóla said with a smile. "But you still need to come home. Chores before bed."

"Yes, Modir," Rúna knew better than to pout. Besides, she really didn't mind cleaning. It gave her a chance to sing, whether the people around her liked it or not.

Dálkr seemed to know exactly what she had in mind as he stood up. "Off to your concert, sunflower," he said with a wink. "We'll catch up in a moment."

Rúna started off down the path, but glanced over her shoulder. She smiled when she did so. Dálkr had his arms around Tóla, holding her close for a simple hug as he whispered soft things. Someday, Rúna hoped she would have something just as true and loving.

But first, scrubbing awaited.