Cera
_{I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back}

Frail figure moved forth with predatory grace unfitting its stature, accompanied only by the click of hooves on natural stone. Long, angelic wings were held in tight, militaristic formation against pale sides. It was warm, for all that winter attempted to rob that from him, too. Cera had felt as if something inside of him had broken with the news of Midas' death. He wished to claim there was no love lost there, but it was too great a magnitude to ignore, a pain too sharp to deal with. He walked around as if razor blades were settled in his skin, shredding him further apart with every step he tried to take forward into the future. But in the desolation of this new world where he could not forgive and forget the sins of his father, Cera had found purpose.

It was a flimsy sort of purpose. A meager replacement for the soul he used to harbor. Once more his budding fire had been doused by fate, turned to a mere steaming coal, an ember at best. But he still moved onward, relying on the jobs he had as Forger and Throat denizen. There was not much else he could do but continue on. Each breath that kept him alive seemed harder to draw in, but he'd lived through everything the world had ever thrown at him. He would overcome this as well, though likely not nearly the same as he'd started. He'd started life already damaged, unwanted and cast away from a figure he had no recollection of. Each piece of his being was further shattered into slivers, and soon he would run out of substance to be broken apart. He'd simply be little grains of nothingness, incapable of being repaired one last time.

"Do you think they'll actually show up this time?" he murmured, stoic except for the undercurrent of bitterness and exasperation. Though he'd come into contact with Spice - a Dragon's Throat member - on his last patrol, the dames that had actually needed to be there had never shown. He was tired of their slacking, exhausted by how often he took up the mantle of their efforts in the herd. There was a set amount for him to fulfill, and yet Cera's plate often ended up far fuller than it was supposed to be. An unfair but undeniable fate.

Ilaria stirred from between his shoulder blades, a disgruntled noise emitting from her maw. Hopefully. If not, we can visit the Sun God alone. It was a promise that she knew would hit her darling where it mattered, get his mind out of the darkness eternally brewing inside his mind as of late. Though she suspected any normal soul would have lost faith in their gods by this time around, it seemed Cera had devoted himself even more to the Lord of Light. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, or something deeper? 

The cadence of hooves on stone slowed before the shattered, desolate shrine of his God. The militaristic form dissolved into a slumped figure, and he knelt gracelessly before the crumbled stones. A heaving sigh shook his frail frame, and he pressed his bare forehead to the ground in a moment of grief and solidarity. "Please give me strength, my Lord." It was all he could ask, drowned in the darkness as he was. For light, for sun. For guidance.

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Patrol thread but open to everyone! I'd love some drama