It is not ignorance that keeps him from showing face at the meeting, for the call is clear and reverberates powerfully through the very core of the sand and clay that holds up the weight of the powerful Throat. They say it is not sentient, that the particles beneath their limbs are nothing but collections of dirt and rock; Cera does not believe this is true, because in every step and glance around the open expanse around him, he feels the Earth, the Sun, humming in harmony all around him. Do they not feel the Lords beneath their feet, over their heads? Have they already grown so comfortable in the return of their celestial governors that they forget their power, their grace? The very life of those immortal beings thrummed passionately in every particle, every breeze, every ripple of the horizon as the heat bore down. It was disgusting, how such a large body of people could go from wailing and cursing the gods for being torn from them, to caring so little for them once they returned. Greed had spoiled them, turned them rotten from the inside out, and Cera wanted to spit upon the corpses they dared to call living bodies. The Earth Father had given him the other piece to his soul, the loving brother he had always wanted. Similarly, the Solar Lord had housed him since birth, and had faithfully kept him safe from monsters like the blackened opposites that had once plagued Helovia. They were his patrons, equally loved and worshiped, and Cera despised the blatant selfishness his herdmates showed so carelessly. Did they only care for what the Gods gave them? Was that why they were celebrated upon their return, forgotten so rapidly?

They were a disgrace, but Cera was imperfect, and would not judge them to the best of his ability. It did not ensure that he would stand their blithe comments, should any be made. Mortals were selfish, greedy, temporary creatures. Often he wondered if he was the same, if this was some sort of sickness that infected them all at birth. If it spread like an airborne disease, like prejudice. So he remained in the clear sapphire waters of the oasis long after the call rang out, staring down at his reflection and idly sweeping his wingtips over the water, almost playfully. Ilaria, as a red panda, was a magnificent swimmer and was happily paddling about in the water around him. She lifted her eyes to him, pinning him like a butterfly's wings to the back of a picture frame, disapproval all he got from her for a few moments.

Is wrong, Cera. Go. Cera's face crumpled, unhappy with her decisive words. It was true, they should probably attend the meeting. They had yet to miss one in all their years both together and apart, and it was not time to start a new bad habit. Sighing, the youth relaxed his shoulder muscles and dropping a nearly-white wing into the water. Scrambling up via the delicate feathers, Cera winced slightly as Ilaria's claws dug in a little, but soon she was perched easily astride his collarbone. In moments he had waded from the waters, sun-bleached hide glowing in his recovering health, illuminating his colors that had paled in the heat, ivory like his wings would become as an adult. Well...technically he was of age, but often he did not feel it, despite the lean and corded muscle that kept him strong and the broad shoulders that grew wider as the scar that stretched across them shrank.

They are hard to miss, a massive conglomeration of bodies, but he does not approach farther than hearing distance. Lingering on the outskirts of their warmth and familiarity, he listens. Gaucho, Sultan of the Throat. Levi, Lieutenant of the Throat. Kri, gone and whereabouts unknown. Rasta, concerned, and Levi seconding her words. Cera shakes his shoulders and moves forth into the crowd, turning his head to meet eyes with all who care to gaze upon him. It is time for him to speak.

"I do not think Levi nor Rasta should be condemned for their worries," here he looks kindly to Onni, whom he had not expected such an answer from. "It has nothing to do with Gaucho's speech, as clearly he has learned a different language. Levi, I find it cruel that you prejudice against him, has he not fought mentally to learn our language? Are we to be racist as the ones who nearly took our home from us? Banish all differences, all traces of uniqueness?" He stands tall, face hardening and eyes snapping to Levi, not demanding an answer but making his own feelings known. If they could voice their own, why could he not refute them similarly?

"Gaucho's love for the Throat is shown in the simple fact that he constantly strives to learn more of our language. And Gaucho is a private man, so miss Rasta's worries are not baseless, for how many sides have many of us seen of our wonderful brother and warrior? No mortal is shallow, undefined. We are all deep and complex." Shaking his head and snorting softly, he smiled up to Gaucho, the man he so admired, standing beside his father. His father, the Sultan. How much has he missed? And all of it because of his father's duties.

"I was abandoned, as a foal. My father, Onni, Sohalia...none made fun of my lack of ability with speech, for I had nobody to speak to, listen to. Here I stand now, fully equipped with my words. Do not condemn Rasta, for if we blindly followed any leader, where would we be?" Ilaria peers from his spine easily, silently, though no other being aside from her bonded could hear her in a way they could understand. It was comforting, to know it was something so private, so beautiful, and unique only to them. Perhaps not to everyone who had a companion, no, but between Cera and Ilaria it was secretive and perfect.

"My own thoughts will not be spoken, but I will not allow Gaucho nor Rasta to be spoken down to, nor have their opinion pushed aside. Both are valid, and it is between them, up until the point others have the same worries, and then it is between Gaucho and each separate person." And suddenly he is puffed up, tall and broad and uncaring of who stares at him. "Trust is not established just because someone is named Sultan. It is foolish to scorn someone merely because they are aware of that. Let the trust grow naturally, and we shall be whole once more." With that he stepped back into the group, stirring the air with a shifting wing as he approached Rasta, showing her he was approaching, and slowly pressed his longest flight feather to her flank. Moving to stand beside her, a silent but hopefully comforting force, he prepared for the outbursts sure to come from his "defiance".