Noah, anyone;

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

Sylva addressed the rumors in a most proactive way, but silence is carried on the wind from the Pampas. Curious, Castile takes to the skies. A summer gale kisses his sweat-slicked skin as he gains altitude to maneuver among the clouds. Seeing the world unroll beneath him is a sight of which he has never tired. With the mildest of grins, he watches as the mountains and rocky hills diminish into open fields and winding streams. Beyond their view, Castile seizes the opportunity to quietly observe. He traces the outlines of the herd, memorizing how it shares a natural barricade of trees with Sylva and a coast with the inlet. There are some horses scattered among the open plains, but it’s sparse.

With a tilt of his body, Castile veers toward to the eastern border shared with Loess, alighting where the two lands kiss.

A cough rattles through him, a sickening reminder of the plague still festering within him. Soon, he decides, he will pay another visit to Tiphon to suppress the symptoms again. He can only hope the plague lifts in the near future.

It takes only a heartbeat to compose himself following the hoarse cough. A throaty call is emitted then, beckoning the leader and any whom have found this to be home. As preferable as it may be to remain in the confines of Loess – mapping its future, organizing its ranks – Castile realizes the responsibility thrusted upon him. Beneath his kingdom lies the Pampas. It, too, requires a sliver of his safeguarding and observation. Never having met the leaders – or in this case, a solitary lead mare – he carries himself formally, attentive in his waiting.

castile