Ni'Srilan: The Desert: don't bother, darling.

The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain;
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain.

If Wyvern was around to watch his son grow, he would have said, ‘by Loki, I created a monster’.

“Actually,” he remarks thoughtfully, “I rather like that name. From now on, I shall be known as Anansi Beatrice Alerion de Spider. You can call me Bea, Mr. I-have-a-name-that-reeks-of-overcompensation.”

Seriously; Maximus?

How very Roman empire.

And what is it with complete strangers (who then become not-so-strangers) randomly giving him names anyway?

He does smile at Baraqel’s words, though; it brings his mind to another conversation in particular, in special, Alerion’s utter lack of a masculine ego – you wouldn’t have one, either, if you were born of a shapeshifter father who saw fit to give birth to his gay lover’s son; you learn to let go of some preconceptions early in the game. Genetic lottery it may be, but while Baraqel made it in warrior genes, Alerion’s own lot was one cupful of crazy and rights to the Elemental Mafia.

Whether it’s good or bad, remains to be known.

“I think you’re more of a Rachel, though,” he chuckles and, because he can, flicks a lock of Ferrari-red mane over Baraqel’s face. “Fits with your real name. Plus, it brings to mind hot red heads.”

Not that he’d know anything of hot red heads named Rachel, simply because he just doesn’t look that direction.

“Now that we got the dick-waving contest over – and seriously, it’s entertaining but not that much – what, pray tell, brings you to our humble abode? It’s dreadfully boring. There are better places to live.”

He isn’t very good at welcoming others to his home mainly because, while he was born in the desert, he doesn’t have a home. It isn’t in the sand, it isn’t in the dunes, oases and the cacti Baraqel so adores to explode. Much as his sister, he doesn’t live or fight for anyone other than himself – he likes the commander well enough, and a few others, and of course there’s Fish, but he knows the moment things get too uninteresting, he’ll leave.

Or the moment the fancy strikes him.

Anytime, really.

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of eros and of dust