Gale
this is going to break me clean in two --
this is going to bring me close to you
The Nerenian beacon is bright to Gale’s sharp eyes, a pinprick of light on the western horizon. It has been blazing for weeks now, never dark while he has watched it, and the curiosity had finally gotten the better of him. He’s crossed the ocean on black wings, wearing a shape that matches the Islandres osprey that flies beside him in every detail save his own electric blue eyes. Erne’s are golden, the only part of the sea hawk that is not midnight black as all the native fauna of his island home. The sea passes beneath them in darkness, only the sound of choppy waves and the briny scent wafting upward differentiating it from the shore they keep ever to their right (first the coast of Tephra, then Taiga, now Nerine). When the eastern peninsula of Nerine juts out in front of them, they land.
At the edge of the cliff, Gale shifts back to his equine shape, landing at a gallop that slows until he’s circles back, his hooves once more at the ledge. Erne had circled a moment longer, though now he, too, lands. The brilliantly white mane of the brindle stallion is an easy target even in the dim light, and Erne digs his talons firmly into his companion’s spinal mane for balance. Meanwhile, Gale rolls his wingless shoulders for a moment, and then shifts partially into the Gale that he once was, with a pair of brilliantly white wings, the left marked with a blood-like crimson V. It is a drain on his shapeshifting ability, but it remains the most comfortable shape for him, and so is worth the sacrifice.
He does not wear the wings for the reminder of his red wrist, or so he tells himself.
Shake his navy head, the stallion looks around. There is little to see in the darkness with his unadulterated eyes, so soon he searches for heat instead, attempting to identify whoever will come to investigate his landing before they are too close. By landing near the bonfire, Gale hopes to catch the attention of whomever tends it.
@[Popinjay] @[whoever]
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