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}

Have more equines joined the Throat? Ilaria noted idly from his withers, her paws playing with the long white strands of Cera's mane, braiding them in a beautiful fishnet down across his right shoulder. She'd improved over the seasons, with little to do on patrols but play with what little she could access from his body. Cera hummed softly in his throat without formed comment, tail swishing against his hocks as he strode across the sands. Ampere's meeting had left him with a task that Megaera had echoed, and finally he'd been supplied the numbers he needed. The crafters had not been collected in one spot for quite some time, and Cera was a bit disgruntled with their meager - or entirely absent - measures. His completed well stood as a forlorn, biter reminder of the times when Cera had taken the brunt of the Throat's necessities upon his shoulders. Still, he was eager to collect his flock, guide them down the path of learning, and simultaneously aid their people. If a singular soul was capable of being called a flock, he thought, a wave of disappointment cresting in his heart. 

He was near the magnolia, having been informed that Sacra was nowhere to be found, which left only Ranjiri on his list to gather. Not a difficult task, considering they slumbered together nightly beneath the magnolia that Midas had reared Cera beneath. Gold struck across his skin, catching emerald eyes and scarred skin and boyish smile. It would temper in time as his sister arrived, for he was the head Forger, and he could not always let their official meetings take on too heavy a measure of informality. He was a master of his craft, even with his inherent humility regarding the subject, and he was eager to see her progress from the standpoint of his own hard-won practicing and successes. As his sister, Cera had been overjoyed to find out she was interested in metal work. 

"Ranjiri?" He called in the direction of the magnolia, wondering if she was back from her patrol yet. 

It bellowed over the sands with impressive reach, wings folding and tucking against his sides, his frail frame accentuated by their span as the pale primaries kissed the sands. He waited for them to gather, cocking a hip and idly letting his magic unfurl like tendrils of warmth into the ground below. Finding the metal deposits, feeling out their edges and abundances. There would be no need for fire with the inherent magic of the sun and how small the keys were, Ranjiri would be just fine. But where had Sacre disappeared to? Cera's ranks had already been small to begin with, and he felt the loss acutely. Was nobody interested in the craft he so adored?

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Crafter meeting! Even though only Ranjiri is an artisan...