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It was time for a name.
Not for himself, no, Hawke had a name, and the more he mulled it over, the more it solidified in his mind as himself. No, it was time for a name for the owlet, the little downy grey fluffball at his hooves, the one that looked up at him with eyes black as the night the boy had been born in. However...Hawke lacked the knowledge to name the chick, so they merely just stared at one another.
Eventually the boy tired of standing, and his gangly limbs folded, grulla body sinking to the sand. The chick hopped closer and nestled against his bondmate's side, against the soft-furred bag that now rested over one of the boy's shoulders. That drew Hawke's attention to the pouch, and once more he nudged it open, flipping the bird-skull clasp with his lips. He reached in and drew out the bones, laying them out in the sand before him, one by one, all in a perfectly aligned row.
Little to the boy's knowledge, the bones served a purpose closely intertwined with himself, the runes on each bone etched in the language of his sire, each bone written with a series of runes to describe things. The owlet too studied the bones with his beloved, both boys mulling over the runes in their heads.
Neither knew what they meant, nor what purpose they once served and would serve.
So one by one Hawke returned them to his bag, feeling the smooth bone in between his lips. Most would shudder at the prospect of touching, let alone keeping such grim things, yet to the princeling it felt...natural. Right. So he guarded his bones with a ferocity bordering on obsession; not even his beloved Aelin could touch the bag without Hawke watching her like a..well... hawk.
"blah blah blah."
@[Zèklè] Figured this is where they meet and Hawke finds his minion magic :3 GOLEMFIGHT
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