i've never fallen from quite this high; Aquaria

[Pteron]

and since you’re the only one that matters,----------------
----------------tell me: who do i run to?


He has done what Aquaria had asked, giving the pale nereid the space she requested. Rather than fret over the Ischian Dame, Pteron had focused instead on the training of his young charges. He has also explored most of the large island and several of the outer islands as well. He has not ventured to those ruled by Beachmasters, preferring to leave such encounters for when he has Aquaria to soften what he has heard are a rather territorial lot. (That this rumor is almost entirely about his own grandsire is something that Pteron remains oblivious of). Pteron has flown over the island in all types of weather, strengthening his wings and flight skills, and teaching his sons to do the same.

Most nights he falls asleep as soon as he closes his olive-green eyes, and each dawn he awakes as fresh as a spring colt. He feels it too, lacking any sign of ache or age in his body, and suspects he’s inherited immortality from some distant ancestor.

The same is true today, and the sun is just starting to lighten the edge of the horizon. The late winter air is thick and humid, promising a storm that’ll come with the dawn. These are Pteron’s favorite kind of storm, the kind that come suddenly and are gone just as fast. He dislikes the long days of rain, and has heard that the worst of those occurs at the heart of winter and are behind them now.

He canters, but his pace is uneven and choppy until he finds his footing, and the perfect distance from the surf at which to run. Once he finds it though, he pushes himself into a gallop. In the semi-darkness his speed is reckless, but he keeps it up until the sky is light enough to see by, and only then does he slow. There is sweat lathered across his pale grey sides, and his breathing is heavy. Looking around, Pteron finds that he has run farther than he’d thought. Farther than he’d meant to, really. This is the strip of beach that curls into Aquaria’s cove around the trees ahead of him. He is still other than his breathing and the rapid flicking of his ears, and after a moment he turns to move into the woods. The river is not far, he knows, and there is no reason that he shouldn’t be drinking from the river.

@[Aquaria]

-- pteron --