Some say I am brewing, some say I am coming. When I finally arrive, I roar in the sky.

I am born without breath Yet I wander endlessly. I carve without hands, Feed without a mouth, And remember every place I’ve never stayed. I move only forward, Giving myself away until nothing is left, And still I am never empty. What am I?

The ending of a holiday bird And also for a pack animal that lives in a herd. Three little letters, one syllable long, The most important thing to know before playing a song.

These three sounds compose me: My first is the prefix to do once again. My second begins a Pokemon type that Ness had in spades. My last, some hear in the wild, and all hear from nature. Finally, consider these hints as three arrows guiding you.

I hung in gardens of emperors and kings, A jewel of purple in medieval springs. Preserved in brandy, baked into a pie, Sought by monks where old orchards lie. Not apple nor pear, though kin I assume What fruit am I?