The Whistle Language of Antia

Already night. The last drops of light were now long gone, and certainly, the midnight had already given its place to more dark, haunting hours. The deafening silence was now beginning to become something more than worrying, a feeling with no name, as those that sharpen eyesight, accrue hearing, and set all senses on high alert; even when the absolute nothing rules the around. The hypertension was resulting in a high body temperature, even-though tonight’s cold, mid-December night, found him hiding in the freezing Canyon of Vanrk.

The first whistle ripped the silence, as a thunder rips the night sky. He perked up, and almost lost his step, next to the cliff, swallowed by the thick darkness. The goosebumps started from the top of his head, went down his spine, and ended at the bottom of his feet, as if cosmic electricity had been praying, and finally attacked, his very existence. It was not but a few seconds, until the chill gave its place to the biggest smile he had allowed his heart to draw on his face, since it all started. The Whistler had arrived.