until every last star in the galaxy dies
A
ll he can think, as the wind ruffles his russet feathers and glides like a spear across the dark planes of his skin, is how strange the land of Novus is, and how unfamiliar its geography is to him.Small-wings-big-dreams-Charlie guides them south with such surety and confidence, as if each rock and blade of grass that stretches between them and their destination is familiar. A riddle that makes no sense to him reminds her of places she’s been, and he thinks perhaps that is what the mystery-writer may have intended: that a local should find this Prudence, that a Dusk Court loyalist should be the hero of this story.
Sirius, of course, is not looking to be a hero; nor is he particularly eager to don a suit of armor (it reminds him too much of the hood he once wore, the leather that once tied him down.) The excitement that rises that a wave in his belly comes from the chase, from the joy of exploration and discovery; even if there was a treasure chest full of jewels at the end of this hunt, he would have little use for it.
He lifts his head, letting the cool-wind-off-ocean-waves wash over him. It distracts him from the riddle, from the twisted words that still tie his mind in complicated and confusing knots. He can taste the salt on it, and he can’t get enough of it; there had been no ocean where he came from, not for many miles.
But here, the land only stretches so far; waves crash against the shore, a dull roaring filling his ears. As the filly bounds through the grasses, he tilts his head to listen.
“I don’t see a “great eye” here,” he says, looking around the cliffside, “unless they mean the sun? But that’s everywhere.” He gestures upwards with one wing extended.
