Iliad can feel the morning light cast down onto his side. His eyes open slowly and takes in the sound of the sea, the tide washing against the shore, gulls calling overhead and wind crooning in the early sunlight. Around him the air is chilled, a crisp spring morning. He gives an exaggerated yawn and stretches out his wings then leans over to grab his banjo. He flings the instrument over his neck and gets it secure and lets it rest between his wings. The obvious absence of his necromancer doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Nicodemus I swear to god if you’re pick pocketing someone,” Iliad mutters before he spreads his wings out and gets a running start before taking off into flight. “I’ll package your balls and send them back to your mother probably.” He shakes his head as he starts to circle about the shore until he finally steers his wings and starts to head out over the water. It isn’t that he finds himself inseparable from his companion, in fact, it isn’t particularly difficult for him to part ways briefly with Nicodemus but there is an understanding. They are two sides of a similar coin, bred from the same lineage. There is comfort in the familiarity, the lack of questioning in his heritage. Nicodemus was raised with the same stories, spent his days around the fire with their sisters. They are children of the wind mothers, sons of valkyries and maidens. In some convoluted way, that Iliad will never dare admit, they are brothers. Traveling with a shit stain necromancer though is better than traveling alone, so his complaints can only go so far.
Iliad
Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle,
but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.
