[P] fernweh.

[Isorath]

Isorath light light light, and then my absence "It is beautiful, is it not?" A melodic greeting carried upon the winds toward the Stormsinger as the Sun began his sovereignty, illuminating the morning with pleasant pastel hues. His words are laced in the sweet smell of Roses and Chocolate Cosmos, dutifully braided into the cascading banners of starlight against his neck. Soothing fragrances made to calm the soul, gentle in its invisible caress against the senses. A lover's chaste kiss at sunset. At this hour all is peaceful, perfect for those who lingered between Worlds. The weary and the troubled, restless souls whose minds betrayed their hearts and vice versa. It is the hour of the lamenting, just as the hour of twilight is the hour of the broken. There are secrets and confessions in these hours, leaving lips like prayers — desperate for absolution and solace. Yes, Isorath knows these hours only too well. One of many with a fragmented heart between a cage of golden thorns, suspended by precarious silk tendrils. He is silent in his approach, broad wings tucked beneath the trailing warmth of tulle and silk, constellations twinkling in the morning light, diamond eyes as majestic and serene as the stars themselves upon Calligo's ethereal bodice. The morning chill nips at his frame, and instinctively the leathery appendages pulled tighter against his scaled form, taloned fingers hugging the insides of the luxurious fabric. The sound of Ocean waves and the tempest of the morning wind reached his ears, and the Sage could not deny the faint brush of a smile against his pale muzzle. It lasts for a moment, like a ghost in the fog, it's gone again. A breath against the wind, a moment lost to times codex. Instead, there is a melancholic note upon the sharp contours of his face, the glittering crystals and strands of golds doing little to distract from it's presence. He stilled beside the Stormchild, lavender pools taking in her windswept and sweat kissed visage. The very essence of the wild and untamed storms at sea, beneath an inky canvas. "Aislinn, wasn't it? What brings you to the edge of the World?" The Sage asked, recalling her name from when he had met her upon the storm torn hills in the rain. There had been promises whispered to those sacred winds that night, he briefly wondered how their conquest to be better had faired. There's no obligation for her to answer his question, though, there never is whenever the winged Kirin spoke without fire in his lungs. Isorath had long learned that questions outside of stone walls, while often asked with the best intentions, had dire consequences. They lead places one would either too gladly go, or find themselves lost within a maelstrom they couldn't find the end of. He himself, had been folly once or twice, and had quickly learned that nonchalance and passing inquisitiveness often diverted such precarious choices. Better to ask without consequences and chains, and let the receiver decide to take the leap into the unknown @Aislinn OOC notes can go here, as well as tags! remove the 'hr' tag to get rid of this line ^ "this here is your speech colour!