Nimbus, the renowned postal falcon, soared with regal confidence, his wings slicing through the mist. Tiny leather pouches dangled from his leg, each sealed with wax and marked with a swirl denoting its unique scent. As he dipped lower, the scent trails wafting from the pouches mingled in the air—rose, cinnamon, fresh-cut grass—but one was different, sharp and electric, tinged with the promise of a storm.
With practiced grace, Nimbus gently drops a letter scented with vanilla into the hands of a waiting florist. Nearby, a curious baker inhales a letter redolent of warm bread, smiling in delight. Yet, as Nimbus reaches for the pouch scented with thunder—a rare communication meant for the city’s weather mage—a sudden gust crackles through the air, and the pouch slips away, tumbling into the wind.
Nimbus circles above the twisting lanes, scanning for any glint of the lost pouch. Down below, the scent of ozone drifts, leading him toward the old market square where storm clouds swirl. Every beat of his wings is urgent, his heart thundering with the task’s importance.
Tess, the city’s youngest inventor, carefully picks up the pouch, sniffing the sharp, metallic aroma of thunder. She recognizes the postal falcon’s emblem and realizes this letter was never meant for her. "I wonder who needs a message carried by the storm," she muses, feeling the pouch gently fizz with static in her palm.
Tess bursts through the tower’s door, clutching the pouch. Nimbus lands on her shoulder, his feathers damp but eyes grateful. "I believe this belongs to you," she says, handing the scented letter to the mage who stands waiting, robes shimmering with hints of lightning.
The mage thanks Tess and Nimbus, tucking the thunder-scented letter away. "Perhaps, next time, you’ll trust a fellow messenger with your stormy secrets," Tess teases, scratching Nimbus’s neck. The falcon ruffles his feathers contentedly, the promise of future scented adventures bright in his keen gaze.
