There had been no real need to worry over his brother and fatherly figure, for Gaucho was more than capable of defending himself. Even so, Cera could not imagine the fear and vulnerability that accompanied losing any of the senses that Gaucho had alluded to. Though the Prince had not intentionally followed the Sultan to the oceanside, after his patrol with Amani there had been a desire for fresh air and the tang of salt upon his nostrils. The caves were cramped and dreary, with shadows of old fear and forlorn hopelessness, and with every passing hour that the sun sank down it had only seemed to close in further on the young Forger. Bidding Amani a bittersweet goodbye, laced with promises of further time together, the golden son had let the winds guide him to the widest space he knew.

The air was cool and crisp, Ilaria's absence only felt deeper the further he flew from the southern borders of his home. She was safe with Ryuu, and in turn his nephew was safe with Ilaria to guard him as Fina once had for him during his colthood, but at times he missed their combined solidarity. After all, she had been his only consistent companion throughout his foalhood. A sad realization, but Cera liked to believe that he had grown up to be so much more than a lost little babe with too-long legs and stumbling words borne of abandonment.

Dropping from the currents that held him aloft, he spiraled down, loose and lazy until pale hooves kicked up sand in a spray that stung his lower legs. He spent the rest of his time wandering down the length of the water, the only sounds accompanying him on his trek the shush of the water and the soft cries of the gulls. Until a thump of arrival brought his head to turn towards the newcomer, only to have recognition fall upon him like an anvil.

Picking up the pace, the youth surged towards his leader, already feeling solemn. It would be hard, to see Gaucho indisposed in any way. Gaucho was one of the few members of his family he had left, and Cera didn't want to see the proud warrior he knew brought lower in any way by his own selflessness. In many ways, quests were unfair. His own had been placed lower on his list of responsibilities, sacrificing his personal magic to help his family and strengthen their chances. Maybe he could be as gallant and self-sacrificing as Gaucho someday.

Approaching at enough of an angle to be seen, unsure of which sense Gaucho was to be deprived of soon (unless it was already active), Cera slowed to a halt and extended a wing towards Gaucho's shoulder. A gesture of support and affection, the same glowing like emerald fire in his eyes. I am here for you. And so he stood and awaited the trial that he could not really help Gaucho with. Not really.

The shout that crumples the silence like an artist crushing away the ghost of a failed idea has pale golden ears of early morning sunlight slicing backwards, warding away the too-loud syllables. Even so, his smile does not falter, though perhaps it tinges towards a side of amusement. It melts into a brotherly fondness as their wings meet and touch against shoulders, far different yet similar in their desire to hold the burdens of their family. Gaucho's physically were more fitting for the job, but Cera hoped that he was not so far behind in stature that his family would find him weak, unable to defend them. His blood would pour upon every particle of sand the desert had to give before Cera would allow his family harm. Evolving the Throat into an island was no offensive, but it was something he would task himself to helping with if it meant invasions (oh how he detested them, the memory of agonized days watching helplessly as his father's once-broad stature disappeared on the horizon to war while he was stuck beneath the boughs of the magnolia that had gone from home to prison in moments) would no longer be a possibility.

Oil.

He is drawn back sharply, for without Ilaria he is helpless to keep his at times wandering mind on more important tasks. Then again, it's rather impossible to miss the hollering that Gaucho has going on. Cera fears he'll lose his own hearing soon enough.

Instead, he turns to his knowledge of the Throat, of the material he often felt when using his magic to search the earth below for metal of value. Oil was thick, like pockets of wet darkness, and Cera knew the sensation well. So that meant that it had to be below their very hooves. Cera caught Gaucho's eyes first, ruffling himself as if to say look at me. Then, he lifted one foreleg to pound it ruthlessly into the sand, pawing and scoring at the earth heavily. Dipping his long neck, he nosed at the area, bumping his nares into it to signify what he meant. Below. Dig.

It was almost fun.

So many often cast away Gaucho merely because he could not speak their tongue as well as they, the language they'd grown up knowing having been something he'd never tasted before he'd arrived in Helovia. Cera knew that many thought Gaucho incapable of higher thinking, that they found him to be not very intelligent. He recalled when Rasta had such reservations herself, when Gaucho had first been promoted. To them, Cera had a few rather creative phrases. They had never bothered to understand, merely reading the cover that Gaucho represented, but there were a thousand novels inside if one cared to get to know the Wildfire. Cera perhaps had a bit of hero worship tucked away inside to make him so biased, but Gaucho was far more intelligent than others assumed, and the clarity that quickly came as Cera pawed at the ground was only further proof of that. The young Forger couldn't withhold a smile.

Together they silently set to work, and though Gaucho was far more muscular than the lithe, athletic Forger, Cera nonetheless worked until his neck was thick with foam and his nares wide and pink with exertion. Shouting from his partner startled him, and he slowed from his digging to listen to what his sultan was saying. The prospect of help was certainly a weight of his slim shoulders, as he'd often been the only one even mildly interested in the art of crafting, and as such had done more as an apprentice than most of the appointed council. At the same time he had to battle the sudden feeling of possessiveness that sprang up inside him, demanding that he be the only one to carry out the Wildfire's orders.

If Ilaria were there, she would certainly call him out on his carrying of adolescent problems into unfitting circumstances.

Catching Gaucho's eye, he nodded to show he understood and would carry out the task of delegation. Then he gazed back down to the earth and continued to spear his hooves into the now-moist earth. At least they were getting closer.