It was quite by accident that the Cloudwalker came to be. It was leaves and dust and sap and all the little things which cause sniffles and dirty glass moved together through wind and time; carried by the currents of the air and transported to the rolling snow fields of the clouds.
Clouds, like smoke, have substance forbidden to those who consume in order to live, but atop a plateau overlooking a flowing white sea, the Cloudwalked dwelled, or appeared to.
Could it sense the chill condensation on its feet? Was it happy? Content? Capable, even, of feeling? It appeared to have learned no language, but if it did, could it speak? Would it choose to?
Was it lonely?
These were the musings and observations of the magus who dwelt in the brass-ball tower in the centre of the forest, overlooking the world. The tower could not be beheld in its entirety, for the brass and turquoise and onyxes which studded it reflected the sun too powerfully to look at, and the peak pierced the highest realms anyhow.
The magus had built the tower himself through the hidden magics of fire, far from all others, and remained in its cold, sterile husk, conducting his experiments. It was then, at the dusk of summer and the beginning of fall that he watched the winds rustling of the leaves with apathetic appreciation. As autumn progressed, he noticed, with passing wonder, the slow building and conglomeration of the Cloudwalker.
The magus continued to watch from the icy peak of his tower as the Cloudwalker began to move. Whether it was through the wind, residual magic, or some other mysterious force, the Cloudwalker was transported to the penultimate layer of clouds, the snowy, cottony fields, and appeared to live there.
As the weather grew colder the passing curiosity of the magus became active interest, and active interest became the focused obsession exhibited by the intelligent, curious, and alone.
The magus spied on the Cloudwalker through his looking glass each and every day, and watched as the Cloudwalker trekked across the rolling hills and mountains, and appeared to sit and watch the cirrus clouds in their frozen magnificence. The magus watched the Cloudwalker seem to contemplate and take a nap. Day after day.
One particularly windy night during the death knell of winter, the clear dark of the starlight reflected bright pale on the surface of the clouds, the magus saw the Cloudwalker dance. It jerked with the frenzied, frantic movements of the beat of a hare’s heart as it runs from a fox, or the screaming of the wind as it whips the lightning through the trees. Then, it stopped. Abruptly. It turned and faced the magus.
After months of watching, the magus finally decided to attempt to communicate with the Cloudwalker. He went deep into his barren brass tower and began to prepare for the expedition. Weeks passed and the weather grew warmer as he tinkered with his magics and considered the best way to approach it. Finally, the magus rehearsed his process, made up his mind, and climbed the steps of the great brass tower to the absolute peak.
Whence he arrived, he looked out and saw a clear, blue, cloudless sky.