Someone in the sky had tied together winds in a bundle and from their hairs he weaved a brush.
Someone in the sky dipped them into the drowsy setting sun and painted the havens in golden shades.

Someone in the sky snatched out a tail feather from the Eastern wind, sharpened it with the soapstone of the early risen full moon, and sketched the evening sky with the white ink of clouds.

But one day, when we looked up towards the sky, we saw the havens turn red, and, from above, a crimson foam of clouds poured upon us, like blood from a split open vein streaming into warm ethereal waters. Someone in the sky was dying on that very day.

There was rain the following night. There was a storm. Lightning bolts, like gleaming daggers, tore through the canvases of the one who had died in the sky. Clouds, dark with envy, hid beneath their black cloaks those paintings, the wonderful paintings of the one who had died in the sky on that day.

Like a blank gray canvas, the havens hung over us. We felt the smoke in our eyes, and we knew that somewhere far away fires were lit, fed and fueled by the paintings of the one who had died the day before.

But we had to know. We had to find out, who will take up the brush again, who will pick up the paints made from the clouds, who will color the sky once again. And what will be painted there. And so we set out on our journey….