02-28-2018, 06:32 PM
we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
The autumn sun is intense as it burns through the Tephran atmosphere, though the feeling is comfortable and welcoming against the broad back of the Overseer as he soars high above the land, each wide thrust of his wings propelling his body through torrents of water vapor mixed with smoke. The first call he had not heard - Imperial’s position inland had quickly allowed his voice to be lost amongst the height and brashness of the ocean’s wind, where Warrick stretches his wingspan over the island’s shoreline on the other side of the volcano. Soon he is headed inland himself, feeling the tiredness in his muscles and bones, imagining himself soothing the ache with a serene dip in Tephra’s many lava-warmed streams. Wound’s call is the one he hears, and with a quick dip of his head and a twitch of his wings, the Overseer turns on a dime, headed quickly towards the sound. He crosses the channel, the sound of his wings loud in the humid air, and before he lands beside Wound, he notices there is a small group forming. He lowers himself next to her expertly, though far enough away so that his great wingspan would not touch her, flapping them quickly so that he may land with a gentle thump of his hooves against the grasses of the inland. He is sweat-stained, smelling of the sun and the sea and the wind, with a winded smile on his face. “Wound!” he greets her breathlessly, tucking his sun-soaked wings to his side so that he may move closer to her, brushing his navy muzzle against her neck. The gesture is tender and one of adoration, sweeping across her skin with confidence. Their relationship is a strange one (though he would never even have that thought for a second) - she is much more than a mere resident or friend, though there is something that thrums between them that he cannot explain. They are akin to each other, two parts easily coming together.
His blue eyes turn to the strangers, turning his face away from Wound to inspect them quickly with a sweep of his gaze. Their smell is not familiar - though a friend of Ivar’s (though the stallion had been just a colt the last time Warrick had seen him - he is slowly feeling his age), he does not recognize the scent of Loess for he had never traveled there. A certain curious comes about the Overseer’s face, though his warm smile does not fade. The man before him is a deep gray, nearly black, with a sun-bleached colored mane and tail. There is a small, dark girl at his side that Warrick assumes is of his bloodline. “I am Warrick. I’m sure Wound has already asked, but what brings you both here to Tephra today?”
Warrick
@[Imperial] @[wound]