But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? He’s in too deep to escape the pull of the relic, he was always in too deep even when he was miles away, safe in his favorite spot at the library where the afternoon light streamed in just-so.
He was bound, they were all bound, to the magic that called. It’s why they’re all here. Even if they don’t rush forward, even if they linger in hesitation or deliberation or plain and simple caution. So he does not run. Instead he takes to the sky, because it isn’t the relic he’s after but the story.
(and if there’s something that tells him that’s not true, that’s not all you’re here for– he ignores it)
With a powerful leap and the eager flapping of his large black wings, he’s airborne, drinking in the action with wide green eyes. Whether it’s his own magic or the relic, as the wind whistles in his ears he sees each of the horses below as a different color. Together they make a quickly-crumbling mosaic, as one after another falls away and moves forward, each at his own speed.
He feels suddenly too far apart to tell the story right and he wonders– is this what the gods feel like? Is this why sometimes they walk alongside man?
Without thinking about it too much, Matero prepares to tuck his wings close to his body and dive into the crowd, into the relic. For this was a story that could not just be observed. It must be lived.
- - -
blooop. Mateo is staying
STAFF EDIT***
@mateo has rolled a 5! He has been awarded +300 signos.
