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Ka’Mate perches; Ka’Ora soars the sky. They know this place. Two pairs of raptors’ eyes scan the sand and the grasses that have begun to spring there; the waters flow calmly and the wind is alight with a newess to it, as though dew drops themselves float upon the breezes of spring. A new year. The heat is rising, cutting through the linger of Frostfall’s grip, and the basilisk knows it will continue to rise until it is the harsh, blessed heat wave he so adores. For now, he stands at the shores of a far-reaching lake. Livid. He cannot stand these parameters—how he is locked in or locked out so easily by the absence of wings upon his back. It disgusts him and angers him to be kept from a sanctuary he has come to love and covet, a sand-jewel buried in the sands far to the south of this land. And yet, he does not feel as though he is a mutant, a lesser being by the omission of flight. He is perfection, an obelisk of the finest onyx and obsidian, chiseled and crafted down to the minute perfection of his tendons. He is the right one; this mote is in the wrong, and detestable. No matter. He has no reason to linger here, now that Macaria (his gut twinges in beautiful pain as the thought of his sister crosses his mind) is grown enough to walk by herself and live beneath the shadow of their father. And yet here he is, his sights still set firmly towards the isle that has captured his passions so tightly in its grasp. He stands—calm and quiet, eyes contemplative and only slightly drowsy in that moment as he waits for one with wings to allow him access. This waiting is a detestable thing. Yet he does it, and the eagles tied to his soul do not dare to wonder at their master’s inability to follow them across the waters. @Megaera "talk talk talk" R E G I N A L D Walk the razor's edge Cut into the madness Question all you trust |
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--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
