oday the colt of stone would back-chat gravity. His sand dusted wings were tight from little-to-no use these past number of days, his cranium loose and sleepy from his endless palm tree snoozes. The hobbit was in need for adventure and exploration today, and he wouldn't lay under the coacoa plants nursing the Sultan's stamps forever - besides, Pippin had never seen true colour like that morning had revealed to him. A most vibrant sunrise of gold, azure and sanguine had littered the sky, promising an unpredictable day of weather and potential turmoil in the sky. The goosling stood with his eyes of stone transfixed upon the mountainous range of clouds above, recalling the words of one he loved the most.
Red at night, sheppard's delight. Red in the morning, sheppard's warning.
If mama was right, they might be in for a brumous thunder or the blessing of rain... or (and possibly the most likely outcome) just another cloudless, searing day on the sandswept island.

It was this thought that agitated the young stag to the point of scrunching his nose with distaste. Another day of unforgiving heat was not a day he really looked forward to, and Pip was the kind to look forward to most.
And so it was without a second thought that the hobbit's wings flared, his steps taking him forward. Up and away he aimed, beating his wings somewhat furiously at first in an attempt to get himself well off of the ground, but when he was at a reasonable altitude and soaring high above the dark trenching sea, he allowed them out to their full span.
Where might he flutter to today?

Appearing like a leaf on the breeze to any dragon or krakens below, Pippigrin was fairly confident that his sky-trek would be one fairly successful should it remain interrupted by a gale, unagreeable weather, or anything of the sort. Mind wandering to the forests of the north-east, Pip wondered if he might search for his saucepan, but then again, he was doing just fine on berries and water grasses. The longer he spent waking in the Dragon's Throat the more he came to terms with the fact that Hobbits didn't travel for a reason, and saucepan's were things that were perhaps better left behind.

Not long into his airborne journey the painted Pippigrin soon spotted a peculiar sight upon the horizon; a rocky outcrop, surrounded by a strange dune-like grassland that seemed to leave the desert behind. As he approached, Pip noted how the land soon transitioned from dunes to grassland, and then to wondrous rolling hills far upon the horizon, but then found himself gazing upon a vibrant pit of fire in the outcrop below.
"Oh!" he chirped, his wings folding and beginning to beat frantically once again.

Eyes of ice stared down, down into the heart of their continent, quaking gingerly as fear sent a grapple into his heart. Though, not a moment later, the hum and step of another tore his eyes away.
With his concentration lost, his heart and wings full of fear, Pippigrin searched for the sound that came from another's footsteps, the heat of the fire below beginning to braze his belly. "Oo-OH!" was his squeak, wingbeats forcing his body upward and out, though, he would not last much longer on such frightened pennons.
Reaching for the sparkling rocks on the other side of the hearth, Pippigrin outstretched his legs, reaching desperately for a save from the fall as he frantically flapped his way the edge of the heart.
Landing with a hoof to the sandstone, his body following right over it and crashing like a snowball, Pippigrin was just glad he had made it across.
"OOOF!" he groaned upon impact, a pile of wings, legs, and goose-coloured fur all bundled up in the yellow grass of the transitioning desert.