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Shuler had been traveling south, departing the hidden oasis of the Basin and trekking down through the mountain pass in an impulsive moment of restlessness, a fleeting, golden shadow amongst the last remains of snow that still linger in the wake of Frost fall’s departure. While he enjoyed the secluded shelter that the hidden valley within the folds of the mountain provided, Shuler was an inquisitive creature, and the wild beckoned him away again. There were things to observe, places to be, individuals to meet. Or watch, from a distance. The amount of information available simply by the process of distanced analysis was near limitless. There was no doubt he would return with something valuable for Psyche and the Plague, nothing escaped him.
The Heavenly Fields rose up out of the fog and mists of the high elevations, Shuler picked his way carefully up the mountain side, navigating the path with practiced, fluid steps, his lithe frame graceful as he continued on his way. Indifference veils him in a shadow of unknowns and uncertainties, golden-brown eyes alight with nothing but vague ambiguity, all for the purpose of remaining hidden in the background, another unimportant figure among the masses, just passing through. The cloak of mist that had shrouded his immediate vision began to clear, the fields of lore that rested atop the mountain coming into view, patches of spring grass growing and thickening in consistency as he moved toward the meadows heart. Sun breaks through beautiful, cumulous clouds that scatter the sky, rays of light bouncing and reflecting off the greenery, casting it across the dun’s coat with a golden sheen that almost seems to make him glow. He is an aureate figure in an emerald world.
He stops, casually, strides shortening, slowing, and he grabs a leisurely mouth of grass as he peruses the meadow’s perimeter. That’s when he sees him, the dark, winged boy with the all too bright ivory locks of hair that are haphazardly skewed against the inky black of his skin by the wayward wind. Shuler’s eyes narrow in scrutiny, not missing the wings that rest upon the stranger’s back, it is a sight that sends an instinctive sigh of distaste past his lips. But what interests the golden unicorn more than the fact that he has stumbled upon the winged creature in the first place, is that he cannot seem to fly at all. Shuler stops, still a fair distance away, close enough to be noticed if the fellow was paying any attention, but he does not speak. He watches the stranger struggle for a moment, his expression bored and uninterested, despite the mischievous bemusement he harbored in his thoughts.
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