oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
The flight is nearly a panicked one, but Brigade refuses to give into that.
Instead, his eyes remain steely, his youthful body streamlining as he shoots through the air as quickly as he can. His nose is stretched outward, the wind whipping at him as his overlarge white wings flare and beat at the air, carrying him faster than he has never dared to go. It stirs something wild in him—something that will be difficult to ignore—something that flares open in his chest as he goes.
It sharpens his features, makes them more severe, add a gravity to them.
It steels his nerves so that when he finally does land on the border of Tephra, he looks older than his two years. His grey eyes are overcast and calm, despite the exhaustion that nips at his heels and the fear of his father’s reaction. He needs a healer, he thinks, and he has heard that Loess has them. He has no idea the darkness that surrounds their being here. He has no idea that they are not there out of their own choice; he has no idea that they have been changed from hand to hand, passed around like things to be owned.
He simply knows that they are here and there are none in Tephra.
And he desperately needs someone who can heal his father’s wolf.
So without waiting he lifts his head and lets loose a low, throaty call—something nearly like the very howl of his father’s pack but equine enough to be recognized—and then he waits for what is to come.
@[Castile] - hi he needs a healer. he is willing to bargain.