Desreal: to you, i come.

It starts off like every other day. The roan stallion rises slowly from slumber, eyelids twitching briefly before they open to the new light of day, a silvered breath blowing softly from distended nostrils as he stands. A quick shake lifts the sand from his hide, and his Earth reaches out, calling to Rajah, his pet. It had been a close shave with Alcatraz, one in which Centurion thought he’d lose his beloved friend. Alas, the eagle is only wounded. A burnt wing and missing feathers are all that he will bear from that day. Centurion considers taking the bird to Hypatia for healing, but something holds him away. Perhaps it is because he knows what the hellhounds taken out of her, what it took out of all the healers and also from the members of Ni’Srilan. He is lucky, that he came away unscathed. And he calls himself a coward as well. Unlike all the others who had run to the aid of those who were attacked, he had hid himself among the dunes, blissfully ignorant of what was happening until too late. He could have done nothing but he blames himself anyways.

It is in the midst of these thoughts, these bitter, turning thoughts, that he hears it. A gentle coo upon the breeze, waves against the sand, wind through his mane. His dark eyes, now flecked with green flash towards the sound, and he is immediately on the move, Rajah perched precariously atop his withers. He moves at a gentle jog out of deference for his bird’s wounds, but he would rather be running. Galloping and leaping towards the sound, this sweet bliss that was echoing through his mind. He barely registers the fact that he leaves the desert, only feels a subtle change in temperature as his massive body pounds along the trail towards Desreal. He doesn’t know what is calling him, or who it is, or if he should even answer, but he is already on his way and will not turn back. His mind is a whirl of sweet innocence of song, and he forgets everything else but finding the maker.

He arrives in Desreal a few hours later, having journeyed from the far side of Ni’Srilan to make it here. But make it he did, and he is glad. The song is louder here, sweeter, and he aches to find the one who sings it. His ears rotate constantly atop his poll, and his eyes search every shadow, every nook and cranny before they catch a flash of white amongst the black. He knows then that this is the Siren, for he has seen her before. She was his teacher, once upon a time, before he changed. Grunting softly as he picks up his pace again, the stallion makes his way to her carefully, snapping dried twigs and rustling grass as he makes his way towards her. His large muzzle is stretched toward her as he reaches her, brushing her flank gently as he comes up on her side. A soft rumble can be heard from his chest as he swings his massive body around to face her, eyes glazed over with hope that it really is her making the song.

“You called, Saphira. I have come.”

Glittering, gold eyes watch the mare carefully, for Rajah is far more intuitive than his brawny counterpart. The eagle is not so easily beguiled by the song, though he feels it singing through his connection with Centurion. Suspicious and proud in nature, the bird cannot understand this ... this... blatant disregard for self. The sharp talons flex minutely, digging their obsidian tips into the tender flesh of Centurion’s withers, willing his friend to come back to him. But there is nothing there, and the bird is worried. With a screech of pain and fear, the massive wings unfurl to beat the air once, twice, three times before he catches a gust of wind and soars away. He is headed back towards the desert, because that is home. And he is alone.

CENTURION;;
earth II