Clarity looms like a dark storm on the horizon: it nears, riding turbulent winds towards him. Though not one to stare ordinarily, his eyes fix with little discretion, questioningly, wonderingly, upon the sole speaker, absorbing the fantastic oddness of a reptilian (impossible!), mare; his existence has been a marvellously sheltered one, limited to meandering white shorelines and turquoise water (glistening skinks and bandy sea-snakes) - paradise. She is unnervingly exquisite and his gaze falters briefly; the hot flames of curiosity burn the inner shell of his skull. Nothing more than a concerned bystander is the unfittingly humble response, so his returning sensibility remains unconvinced - it chants, what is she? His eyes strain, bloodshot and weary (but addicted nonetheless), tracing the supernatural pattern of scales when they glint in the last burst of daylight.

Thoughts are bogged down in a swamp of ambivalence, but he nods to her, even smiles. He is wildly unsatisfied, but the daunting presence her appearance offers, baits his tongue to rest. After an awkwardly long while spent upon her, he pulls his gaze clear. It tracks a short distance before finding the warm mahogany face of the mother; high cheeks bones etched intricately by maternal concern, fatigue that spurred memory of his own dam. The babe too stood near, timidly, witnessing a violent aftermath that she should undoubtedly have been spared. He has spent very little time with children over the course of his years - the Yirrganydji’s bore only a single offspring, and a mere nine months after his own birth, a strict class education had commenced. Friends were colleagues; relationships were professional.

The ingrained indifference he regarded their attendance with (unbeknownst to him, the older’s touch had healed), is marred by familiar astonishment; though they weren’t ostentatiously adorned like the rest of the crowd, this pair were more striking still - smooth, radiant pearls. Not a single feather to suggest normalcy and he feels suddenly plain in their shadow, beside the absurd beauty they embody. Neither show words to suggest their identity - he is insignificant in their wonderland, just a bird passing through, and lashes dip low as his eyes wander on.

He finds the first male, a creamy, cloven hoof - and then three more the same. Long, lean legs, white and then copper, guide his pale, whiskered chin upwards; there is a scattering of ivory across the far breast, the shoulder area too he thinks; both are naked, featherless and strange. Over the nearer, a long veil of flaxen tumbles against skin (though not as glorious as his own), and from the poll a tall crown of trees grows toward the forest heights above. For a moment his eyes explore the trembling green canopy - the murder which still sit within it ceremoniously… what world is this, so unlike his home? His attention centres once more, to find green gem-stone eyes caressing the wounded dove - even from a distance, he can see the tenderness emanating. Though he couldn’t explain the feeling, it brought warmth to his core.

The last, a stallion also he assumes, stands imperiously over the broken devil. He cannot bring himself to inspect the horned stranger for this reason - and he fails too, for now, to find the link to the riddle. Preoccupied, the slender prince too says naught in answer, and sea-green pools tire; they seek refuge, returning to the quiet comfort that the ‘concerned bystander’ brings. Lips kiss upon a bent knee while he recovers his breath.

Despite the distraction, the trauma of it all, he hasn’t forsaken his darling doe. She lays a small distance from him, stirs, speaks in her exotic tongue, and he knows for the most part that she is safe (though why she has fluttered back from the ivory gates of heaven is beyond him - he escaped hell by the skin of his teeth). When his heart beats more smoothly, he turns his face towards her. Gathering the impossible strength since returned, he readies himself, flexes the network of brawn built across him - and then, with a forward focused frown, he forces his bulk to stand. Wings flare outwards untrustingly, prepared to aid should gravity tempt him to fall; he does not, and after a second’s hesitation, thick, trembling limbs carry him to her. “I’m sorry,” begins his croaky voice (he clears his throat). “I had no idea.”