I arrived on this world several sunsets ago. This is a desolate place: the ground is grey dust in all directions; it is cold and light is scarce. I taste the air and know my people could never have survived here. It is a fitting place for me to stay, for a time.
I walk as I write. My wings trail in the dust, a zigzag record of my time here, and my thoughts turn to legacy. There is nothing of me on Gielinor: my aviansie are dead, my staff has been lost. In time, they will forget me. There is something reassuring about that.
A bright light catches my eye, far to the west. I fly to it. It is nothing but a meteorite, smoking in a crater. This world's similarity to the wilderness of Forinthry is inescapable.
There is no land on this world, just wind, water and waves. Nothing stays still. The chaos of it all deafens me. I hunger for peace, stability, growth; so - upon my arrival - I froze water and made an island. A migrating bird still needs a perch.
To pass the time, I flew on the crosswinds and tried to forget my troubles. I remembered that my aviansie would fly about me as I soared, playfully mimicking my every move.
I know now that I cannot - should not - forget...no matter how much I may wish it.
It seems there is no life on this world. I can see the seeds of life, but not life itself. I feel myself reaching for my staff, to give those seeds a spark of energy, a push to catalyse their efforts... But it is gone.
I have wasted enough time here.
The sky is a boiling mass of noxious gas, and the ground seems to be melting. But - by the Elder Gods - there's life here!
I headed southwards, until everything grew colder. I saw what looked like dark stones, fused to the ground. I attempted to move one, and to my surprise it moved itself! These were not stones, but small, shelled creatures. Sharp legs shot out in attempt to repel me.
I have taken to studying them. Weather, temperatures and tectonics conspiring against them, but they hold firm, clustered in their shells. They survive and endure, again and again.
I must continue my solitary pilgrimage.
The air here is toxic; hard, unrelenting gravity pulls me downwards, and even I must struggle to remain aloft. The world is gas, with no ground to stand on. And yet, this world is a paradise for the beings native to its atmosphere: tiny creatures, the biggest no larger than a wasp or beetle.
They circle around me. At first, I thought they wanted to hide in the down of my feathers. But when I turned, they turned. When I stopped, they stopped. They were mimicking and playing.
I feel my old strength - enough to make the journey back to my home. In the hollows of my bones I know that it is time to return, and to shelter my faithful beneath my wings once more.