In the shadowscape of his mind, Altair aimlessly wandered as if he were in a dream. He might have thought it was a dream if not for a strange tree that bore no leaves but small orbs of flames dancing along long branches.
Soul Flames, he knew. They burned like stars, endless and ethereal, banishing the night to birth light. And yet the night seemed to return, to swallow the light. To allow it to exist within its encompassing arms.
What such an ancient tree represented, Altair couldn't say, yet it towered over fifty meters in length and height, its branches fifty feet. Each Soul Flame was never the same shade of color. Some were lighter, others darker, but there was never one that was truly the same. Some glowed bright, others barely seemed to even glow, ready to sizzle out at any moment. Few appeared as though they stood above the masses, so bright that their light seemed to swallow others, masking them beneath their radiance.
