Heat has been tamped down by the firm dominance of the wetter months. Frostfall approaches, a season many dread. When the sands are hard and frigid, the oasis a sharp explosion of ice upon the palette of parched inhabitants. Flat lands herald no protection against the cutting winds, and the already chilly nights of spring and late summer drop in temperature so fiercely that sleeping alone is similar to a death wish. This season is entirely unpleasant to the pale yearling that crosses the sand like a traveler with no path, and yet thankfully not yet weary enough for discouragement to break his youthful stride. Yet the time he envisions is merely within his mind, approaching it may be, and for now he is surrounded by dampness and hesitant dark shoots that reach for a bleak ray of sunshine that wanders towards it teasingly. Skies are a mix of dark heather and weak swirls of azure that try to remind those below that sunny days had once existed. It is odd how those who complain over the heat of the desert, often complain just as much about the colder months when they come. Of course very little of these thoughts, all tucked up in the mind of the yearling we compared to a traveler, actually influence him directly.

It is a rather pleasant day, brisk but not showing risk of showers despite the sleet shade of the sky. In fact it is nearly perfect, and all worry over the frost that will soon come vanishes when a delightful breeze touched his face and ruffled his dual toned locks. How can he resist when the sky beckons so beautifully? Father has left for his morning patrol, and the day stretches out ahead of him like a dull beige road made of sand. Pretty Fina is at his side as always, though she drifts overhead like a calm sentinel. He adores her, and almost wished he could tell her how much he loved her through words. Even so, he believed the proud, fiery predator knew regardless. With youth and energy to spare, flying is something that beckons to him like a gorgeous siren, a temptress with locks of sapphire and skin of ivory, a seductress personifying the ocean of stillness high above and the clouds that leave shadows deep below. Such a simple ritual, and yet the only challenge is how long he can resist the pull of the heavens. Though the odd trio always finds something somewhat new to do each day, it is rather dull at times as they await the end of the golden father's work day.

Today, there is nothing keeping Cera down. As he rises, he leaves behind the worries and fears that plague him far down on the earth. Powerful downstrokes lift light frame heavenward, coasting along the currents he had once been unable to feel. There is no recklessness that drives him into tempting the currents, merely exhilaration. In the beginning, he had been distrustful of the wind and its fickle ways. Where he was now, Cera knew his body and instincts well enough to do this with his eyes closed. Somehow his surroundings and his body became one, and so a yearling of course must dance near danger at least a few hundred times before they are satisfied. So he climbs and climbs, knowing Ilaria is safe in their tree at home. She is sensitive to temperature, but is more concerned with not getting sick or falling off while Cera does his acrobatics. He dips in a vertical dive headlong towards the ground, slowly beginning to spin, and rolling back to a horizontal plane without stopping the motion of his body. He free falls and spirals until his laughter is snatched by the wind and his stress, little as it may have been that morning, melts away under the all-knowing hands of the air that surrounds him.

Fina is who gives him the first clue, soft sound issuing from her beak and fiery irises turning towards the oasis. Again she eyes him, and Cera levels out, ears pricking in alertness for whatever it is she can hear that he cannot. It comes moments later, a strong timbre that echoes out like silk thunder over the land and into the sky. Midas? What was he doing back from his patrol?

Concern grips the youth, and emeralds pinch at the edges in worry. Yet, there seemed to be only a relaxed tone in his summons, even happiness. Glancing at his guardian angel cloaked in carmine and tangerine like a moving ember, he is comforted further by the calmness she exudes. Midas is not in danger, at least. Like an arrow he pierces through the resistance opposing winds bring him, a swift sparrow that is undeterred by harsh conditions, for it is small and fleet and cuts through the tiny areas until there is nothing to hold it back. Pale mottled wings that are slowly growing towards ivory as he ages embrace every inch that they can, and the span only aids him in the speed he pushes towards reaching Midas. Fear and concern do not gently test his muscles in this fashion, but eagerness and curiosity that even as a yearling he is unable to see himself outgrowing. A child at heart with a heart as pure as the gold his father attracted and molded so very well. Maybe that was why they fit so perfectly.

The obsidian splashes give him away, the pale of his wings and the gold that accentuates every inch of him in some manner. Again Cera lets himself fall, as if he is a frightened bird that is too frozen to move its wings and fly. He descends long before he is overhead of Midas, smile wide as he measures how much length he has to use in his landing. Though it is a smooth one, the flair of daring that children test out as they grow is dreadfully obvious. Lanky limbs gouge the sand, haunches pushed low and head tucking gracefully towards his jugular. Wings tilt, become vertical parachutes, and soon he is jogging up to Midas with a large, almost catty grin on his face that grows another angle every week as the tiny strips of baby fat he'd had on his tiny frame melt away into adolescence. Crown turns to find Fina, always aware of where she is regardless of the fact they are not bonded. Once he spots her, he extends his soft beige muzzle to the dark onyx he knows so well. Brushing, greeting, exchanging scents. Joy and the thrill of an adrenaline rush crack and sparkle like tiny explosive firecrackers in his eyes, but there is a tsunami of lover that is always visible when looking at his father.

Yet, he is still curious as to why Midas has most of the day off. Crown tilts in a rather childish fashion, eyeing him carefully despite already knowing he was not injured. Call it habit. "Dad, why are you back so early? Can you spend time with us today?" Hope makes his face glow brighter than the sun that bakes the Throat in Tallsun, jumping to conclusions but always secretly hoping and wishing that Midas would spend more time with him. Of course he used 'us' because Fina and Ilaria were just as important, just as real, as he was. So excited by this possible prospect is he that alabaster stockinged legs dance in the sand, the only uniform thing on his coat. Plume flicks and wings shuffle, hoping not to be shot down with the arrow of denial, yet impossibly tempted and encouraged by the relaxed, eager expression that flares in goldenrod irises and sharpens the angles of his features in a pleasant way. Would today be one of the very rare, infinitely precious days in which it was just he and Midas? With no Ktulu, or duties, or even Hototo? Well, no, that was a lie. Cera would welcome Hototo any day, but traveling to the Foothills was a real pain when Midas only went to see a lass Cera hardly even knew! But today was no day for frustration, he had left those emotions behind when he had stretched himself, and only his anticipating expression remained as he awaited the answer that would cause either great joy or great disappointment.