To Her, there returned a distant and long-lost feeling. And the air flowed, and flowed together into wind. And wind came forth in great gusts, and rolled over Her shoulders and Her back, and through the interstices of Her fingers, howling as it did. To the people of Kjerag, this wind would be felt a colder one. Then wind's howls turned to chaos, its tight shrieks ushered to fray by words of somnolence, as a song rent and shattered over a million risings and settings of the sun and flew about Her forever. So the chatter grew and grew in the air, till it reached out with a black thorn. And a black raindrop hung upon the thorn's tip, and it seemed that it would fall to the land, and fall betwixt the mountains and the trees, and see that the mountains and the trees would become of its likeness. It was cacophony, and it was infinitely hostile, and it heeded no disobedience. This was Danger. So She thought to stir, yet She found it now took considerable energy, which it had not done before. Thereupon She forged into the snow of a million suns, and She sought as if seeking the tail of a threadmade cloth, and about Her finger wound a tail of this thread. And so the air changed in its flow, and the snow flew to the air by Her will, and thus was woven a curtain of it. And She put this curtain to the black rain, and drove it from the land at Her feet, in the manner She had done countless times before. 'Kjarr? Kjarr?' Through the curtain of wind and snow, a soft calling breaks, and reaches her ears again. Kjarr snaps out of her brief daze, half-woven cloth nestled in her lap. She finds her needle still in one hand, yet the tail of her thread fallen from the other, back into the pile. 'I'm sorry, Saintess, I believe my mind wandered.' This is her third day learning weaving from the Saintess. The chamber of the Vine-Bead Court they're in is hung with tapestries woven by Enya's own hand. For Enya, pursuing textiles is just another part of her spiritual devotions. 'Oh... I see. Perhaps I'm teaching a little too fast for you?' Sat face to face with Kjarr, there is absolutely no blame in Enya's words, her face almost twisted with humble apology. She holds her own needle and wound thread, with a cloth much like Kjarr's draped over the crook of her arm, but hers is far more complete, it seems, far more beautiful. 'I wouldn't say that. Certainly easier to follow than your recitations of the scriptures.' Hearing that, Enya smiles as she reaches into the wool pile, picks out the loose tail, and hands it back to Kjarr. 'And yet I hardly leave you so lost in thought when I recite.' Kjarr takes the tail, the warmth of Enya's intent lingering at her fingertips. She'll be finishing this cloth. 'It strikes me, Saintess, that your stitch, and Her stitch of the blizzard, might in some ways be not so different.' And the blizzard whips up outside the window, almost hard enough to stir the tapestries inside. To her, there returns a close and longed-for feeling.