The day was bright and young, warmth rushing to the surface of his skin in as familiar a pattern as any. Of all the countless mornings on which Cera had risen and gone about his business, the sun had rarely ever changed. Perhaps that was why the Lord of the Light had been the endless patron of the desert denizens. His coloring left little to be burned or scalded, unlike those of darker hues and richer pigments, but it was warm nonetheless, even for the desert-born patched boy.

Stretching languidly, he dropped a kiss to the flat plane of his sister's forehead, doing the same just below the smallest horn on Ryuu's face before turning and leaving them to their slumber. There were patrols to be done, metal to be collected, a thousand tasks to delegate upon himself rather than others. Yet, whatever plan he'd half-formed inside his head was ruined - such a strong word, perhaps he should have chosen reworked, reformed - by the appearance of flames on the horizon. Gaucho's choice form of of communication and summons.

At first Cera wasn't entirely sure it was meant for him, but it hailed from the diviner's fires, where the Forgers worked alongside the wise one. Shrugging to himself, he ascended off the desert floor with a few hard pumps of his wings, angling towards the fires with fierce beats. It would not do to be too terribly late, after all.

Sacre has beaten him there, the red splotched youth familiar in the way most Throat denizens are. Though, it was true that Cera had met him once, when Ranjiri and Ryuu had first stood aching and tired at the borders. A cordial dip of his head, a smile curling pleasantly on his lips, and then Cera's eyes fell to the key the younger Forger had created. Gaucho's words came late, the patched cherub having not been around to hear the original command, and Cera quickly took up the slack that was offered to him.

"It should be easy enough," he conceded pleasantly, moving to the rim of the fire, drawing upon the metal with an ease born of natural talent and honed skill. Three keys easily melted into place before his eyes, and he lifted them slowly, tempering them with the cooler air before laying them easily at Gaucho's hooves. "How many, again?" Glancing between Sacre and Gaucho.

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I'm terrible, this is gross, and I can't apologize enough. Eugh.