Cera
_{I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back}

Even as he lazes, his own private rebellion where nobody can see, he is not idle. Magic seeps from his pores like breathing, searching out metal in the earth in preparation for when his loyalty reigns over his desire to pout and list about. He touches the threads delicately, and though he has no skin or pressure to feel it with, the magic awarded to him does it for him nonetheless. Like echolocation, a child reaching for the shape of a parent in the dark of the night. Familiar, grounding. It beckons to him like a voice in the wind, an itch in his skin that never quite settles. Cera wonders if it's the passion in his blood that keeps him working, or the awareness that if he dares to stop, he will realize that there is no real reason to keep moving forward. His family gone, his friends nonexistent, his quest grinding to a sad halt because of his own shortcomings. But he remains in the sands, in the desert, the only place he has ever known. The only Lord he will ever serve. And he will serve until his mortal death, because there is nothing else for him to give. 

He caresses the shapes of the metal, testing his limits, how far he can reach and sense. As if he does not already know these things, but he finds comfort in his boundaries nonetheless. His eyes are closed, verdant shades covered and hiding the reality of the world from his vision. He sees only in shapes and vague sensations, but Ilaria is not so blind. Her little claws dig into his neck, tail thrashing in surprise, and a shadow slips over his eyes faster than he can open them. Lunging to his hooves is no easy process, not with how his wings are sprawled out like a fallen angel at his sides. He will not risk hurting his wing out of a surprise announcement. 

Ilaria scrambles upon his skin as upside down becomes upside right. Cera's wings and the white of his skin are stained a soft, subtle green. There are pieces of flower petals and grass in his mane and tail, and he surely looks disheveled and caught unawares. But whoever has happened upon him clearly knows his name, and across the rolling grass a familiar, nostalgic face comes into view. 

She has grown so much, he sighs to Ilaria, feeling a pang in his heart for all he has missed. He is not Gaucho's family. He is not her brother. But he has sworn, privately, to love and shelter all of Gaucho's blood who seek him out. Even if it means putting them in their places, as he once had done to Zenobia's younger brother. But her excitement is tangible, as real as the lightning in her blood, and Cera cannot stop the broad smile that lights up his cherubic face at her approach. 

"Zenobia!" he cried happily in response, wings shivering and curling at the tips of his primaries, body language exuding joy and surprise. "You've grown so much," he chuckles, eyes fond and soft, crinkling at the edges where years of smiles have drawn themselves permanently into his skin. "How are you? Are you well?" And there is so much he longs to ask her, but not all at once. It's a miracle he has her here before him at all, and he intends to savor it as long as he's allowed.