(Untitled)

[aut_augur]

It has been something slightly more than fifteen years since he finally buried Gregor. It had been difficult between them since he'd begun edging up to fifty, had only gotten worse over time. Petty fights about worthlessness and age and beauty and, mundanely enough, money and infidelities, things that... simply did not concern Jast. His lack of

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[gerfaucon]

The prince is resting in a large, gnarled oak, roots locked into the ground like winding, twisted fingers hooked into something solid, something to keep still. Dawn is coming, he feels it creep along the horizon in tendrils of pale pink that push away the gray of night, but that isn't what wakens him. It's the presence of a friend at his close peripheral; that familiar twitch of recognition, and Niarkhos feels the boy soon as he's nearby, senses the company and it rouses him from a light slumber

[aut_augur]

He has followed the prince's golden trail across sky and countryside, ridden the air currents and swum through the layers of grass until he had found this place. Grand old tree with grand old roots and he finds himself thinking about Mist again for the first time in over a decade. He thinks he approaching quietly, presence tamped down to disturb no one's sleep, but the hunter knows even if his companions remain asleep.

Perhaps Jast lets that flatter him, though perhaps he shouldn't. He reaches up to stroke Niarkhos' feathers, laughing softly, happily, under that tickling greeting.

"Hello, old one, I'm glad to see you had company to keep."

Perhaps he also should not crack about the bird's age, but he means it endearingly, of course. He tilts his head into the bird's touch, cheek brushing sleek feathers.

[gerfaucon]

It only makes him twitter louder, a purling sound akin to a cat's purr, enthusiastic to be with his friend again. The touches to those feathers is good, soothing, something he hasn't felt in a long time, real hands and fingers and skin on the bird's body. He likes it, lets it be known that he likes it by chewing on Jast where he can reach.

"Company, yes. Though they'll be leaving soon, I imagine. My stories are rather tiring. What brought you here?" Niarkhos drops from the boy's shoulder, curling into a form that can stand straight and be at level with his friend, smiling with a shred of sleepy mischief.

"Not that it isn't a lovely morning surprise, of course."

[aut_augur]

Jast stares at him quietly a moment. Looking this bird in the eyes is dangerous, he thinks, counting rings in the gold, knowing each tiny imperfection and variation is telling him something. This one is the fall of an empire and has long since passed them by. This one here is the day's weather: despite the lateness of the season, the sun will remain warm and high. He looks away.

"Your stories aren't tiring," he objects, vacillating a bit, perhaps. He doesn't recall birds being known for their clarity.