#devoursleuth

@devoursleuth ⊹ Draconic wings beat the air high in the sky and Durin's magenta eyes blink, focusing on the sight of the Grand Master he's found at the top of the tower of the Favonius Headquarters. How did he get up here? Durin thinks. "Ah ... Grand Master?" Durin tilts his head. " ... Are you hiding from Ms. Jean again?"

             at this hour, sitting in sunlight is the sweetest kind of pleasure. The breeze is just light enough, fresh enough and frequent enough to feel good on his skin, and the rustling leaves whisper reminders that he's finally back home.

Varka sits against the tower's rocky wall, eyes closed and mind blissfully empty. He could stay like this all afternoon, but an unexpected eclipse drags him out of this indulgent stupor. As his eyes crack open, he sees only a silhouette shaped like Durin before slowly adjusting to the light again

⠀⠀⠀* CONT. from @devoursleuth . 🪦

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀—— 𖦏 ⌯⁍ * several seconds go by . no movement on the screen . was it a mistake text, sent to the wrong person ? then, the bubble pops up, signifying a possible response incoming .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * 💬 : Boothill is Typing . . .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * it hovers there for a few long seconds .. only to disappear . like the person on the opposite end had written something ( * or spoken, in Boothill's case . ) before deciding against it & deleting it all . another stretch of silence & lack of movement .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * 💬 : Boothill is Typing . . .

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * gone again . instantly, like he frustratingly abandons this line of thought too . silence once more, then, finally :

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * ' yeah, sure thing, boss . as always, ya kick ass . sorry to be pestering ya so late at night . '

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * the other Ranger never really makes it a habit to indulge in his dreams like this any other time, nor is he much of a texter in the first place . his message is oddly vague, almost dropping the subject before it could even begin . with so much hesitation beforehand, it would make one wonder if he even meant to say what he had ended up sending to begin with . Boothill was hard to read in person, much less so over the phone .

@devoursleuth ⊹ A pink chubby raptor seems to have gotten lost again, but fret not, Ifa is not long behind his little assistant, chasing up to the scene. "Dude! Not cool, don't just fly off like that!" Ifa looks to who Cacucu has clung to this time and he removes his hat, bowing and thanking the stranger. "I'm so sorry, dude. He's hitting those rebellious years. Did he cause you any trouble or damage, I can totally pay you back, no sweat." ( Ifa/Cacucu and your Xiuhcoatl 👀)"

             life outside the sovereigns's rule has changed drastically; the flow of elemental energy has shifted, now belonging more to an unreachable place in the sky than to the veins pulsing beneath the earth.

This world is sick. Malnourished, its light stolen and rationed out like scraps in exchange for obedience. It survives off a project of ignorance imposed by usurping forces. Xiuhcoatl almost wishes his slumber had never been disturbed, that he could've remained unaware of what became of his home.

But what would that make of him if not the same as the humans he resents?

Now he wanders across Natlan's plains and slopes as though he were the one who first drew it onto the map — and, in a way, he is. The sovereign walks among his Dragonborn, learning of the ways they have changed from the forms he once breathed into life and, although he no longer sees, he would recognize his children by essence alone.

One youngling flies into the flamelord's arms this time, its bones so light it feels like anything less than gentleness might break it. Xiuhcoatl's gathers the small creature close, his arms folding around it like wings shielding a fledgling from danger and, if it hadn't radiated such approval for the figure trailing behind it, he would've scorched them off the edges of his territory before the sound of their voice could traverse the space separating them.