Exiting the house, he starts walking down the street without any destination in mind. He idly gazes at the workers doing thier jobs.

After getting not maybe about fifty yards, a sound caught his ears. He stopped and cocked his head slightly, listening. Furrowing his brow as recognition came as to the nature of the sound. It was... crying; a soft sobbing coming from the alley.

The wings are elegantly simple in their complexity. Long, wide wings, shaped vaguely like an eagle's wings, influenced by a dove's grace. Hollow, with a thin skin with invisible runes and markings etched with wax to protect them from flame stretches across an elegant, hollow frame. The wings are hollow. Mostly air. You'd think that wouldn't work, but it does. The wings are only there to caress the wind, to slip through it, to give the wind something to lift up as it carries its mortal cargo.

Two large wings, shaped vaguely like dragonfly wings, sit on struts slightly angled to one another, on an axis parallel to the wings. An elegant mechanical phrase, "Propelling wings" is written in Calena's tidy script writing. The "propellors" make the aircraft move, presumably, and are in turn driven by a most curious device.

To the untrained eye, the device appears to be some sort of strange black carapaced insect, a beetle sitting squat in the middle of this gossamer, beautiful aircraft. But Calena's diagrams are easy to understand. They demonstrate the principles while keeping the arcane, mysterious workings to themselves. It somehow turns flame and fire, banked and contained under the carefully-protection-etched runed carapace cover, into mechanical motion. Motion moves special belts (hard to tell if she's thinking some sort of treated tendon or ligament, or if it's a fine chain, or perhaps magically heat-protected silk) that power the propellors, and feeds the energy back into the box.

You can imagine the device, its little engine buzzing, the great fanblades whirling, luminous and translucent in the sunlight...faster...faster as the machine starts to move on the little rolling wheels, the wings, controlled by silken tendons tied by pulleys and intricately-woven controls into a relatively simple steering yoke and pedals (oh to put your bare feet on those pedals, to almost become one with the machine...), twist ever so slightly like a flat hand drawn into a slight cupped shape...the air rushes, catches the wings...and the glorious machine rises into the air...No flight spell, no magic other than safety precautions. Just this miracle of engineering, riding, harnessing, gently floating on the wind currents. A ship for the air, for taming the skies...for exploring a whole knew third dimension man has been unable to visit in all his long years...

"Bring Azymyth to Seerling's Music Shop, or you will be next!"