As he sails effortlessly southeast between the mountains (the basin just a meaningless mess of rushing colour beneath), keen eyes spy the the two silhouettes of each enormous, unsettling sentinels, standing guard before the valley; never did their queer, menacing presence affect him any less. Although the wind grows fiercer and all the more untameable the higher the altitude he takes, Noah can not bear to pass close by to the figures, and braves the turbulence until he is clear. Resettling to both a calmer climate and pace as the range gives way to rolling tundra, his chin deviates rearward so that he might find the dove and see if she’s alright; in the air, there are no trees or rocks, nothing with which to collide, and he searches that gaping passage for view of her tiny, avian frame. When contact is made, he smiles cheerfully, elated, thoroughly rejoicing in the vastness of the clean blue sky, and draws higher, so that they might reach the current that the violent wind riding the basin’s walls, wouldn’t allow.

Crisp, cold air spews into hungry lungs as he draws a long, deep, thankful breath. It ruffles the neat pattern of golden feathers and drags playfully at the flowing tides of his silvery, shimmering hair. It dries his eyes, burns them, and forces a defensive glaze of saline to form across them; thick lashes interlock loosely together. It was both intoxicating and invigorating, and he sucked greedy mouthfuls - one and then another.

After time spent just relishing the glory of flight (flicking backward glances here and there to make sure his charge follows safely), Noah shifts his gaze downwards to behold this world called Helovia that holds him captive. Dull, dead-looking tundra falls away into lashing blue ocean on either side, and his heart jerks agonisingly as thought of his island home and family are triggered - though he is tempted (always) to find that frothing western sea and drive home, he cares to deeply for his exotic dove, and holds his blind course in a southeasterly direction. The bolder the distance between him and Nora, and the horned-ones, the more sound he begins to feel. Though he hasn’t passed above this region before, the decoration of rocky hillocks and the sparse speckling of late-summer green across them, reels in his attention. He recalls their first journey easily, the treacherous ( and quite ridiculous), mission by foot which had seen pasterns roll and knees grazed; but he remembers still better the misty, roaring waterfall who tumbled down from a height and the sweet, cool water which had soothed his knotted belly.

They had parted from the Basin early in the day, and already the rich red hue of the ageing afternoon is illuminating the turning earth below - it occurs to him suddenly, that he hasn't given the dove any time to feed all day. Guilt strikes his soul like a neon rod of lighting, and he begins instantly to descend, circling lower and lower, with a grassy glade in sight. The trees grew well enough apart from one another, to accomodate his giant wingspan, and he lands easily and without hiccup; with hooves treading on the soft loamy ground, he moves swiftly from the spot so that Nora too might come down. "I’m so sorry," he calls gingerly - noting with regret that she lags, and gestures to the pasture with the crook of his wing.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior