Magnus has not ventured outside of Tephra for some time now.
Perhaps it is because of the safety afforded to him within the borders of his volcanic kingdom, although he has never been one to cling to a safety net in any way. Perhaps it is because the field has been so quiet; every time he has made the journey toward it, there have only been a few mingling souls and nothing else. Perhaps it is because all of Beqanna has been quiet, settled, and for the first time in years, he has felt confident and comfortable enough to simply enjoy his life, enjoy his land, enjoy his people.
Regardless, it almost feels strange to step out of it now, the autumn air biting in comparison to the warm weather in Tephra. It is soothing, for a moment, and then almost uncomfortable, but he adjust as quickly as he can, launching himself forward so that he can catapult across the kingdoms, skirting across their borders and losing himself in the feel of his muscles aching and lungs stinging. He loves to run like this—has always loved to run like this—and a fierce joy seizes at him as he continues to rush forward.
He doesn’t stop until he finds his way into the trees, and by then, his coat has turned to crushed gold. He can feel the dampness beneath the tangles and dreadlocks of his mane, and he tips his handsome head back to gulp in air—breathing it in deep. When he lowers his head again, he catches a glimpse of rainbow and wings. Curious, intrigued, he moves forward, his inky lips tilting into a crooked, lopsided smile.
“Hello there,” he greets, his whiskey-voice showing the barest hints of strain and exertion. “My name is Magnus.” A flash of white as his teeth show against his muzzle and then a nod. “How are you today?”
MAGNUS | I don't belong to anyone, but everybody knows my name