ORIGIN - above your station

The trip to Cepheus held nothing of note. He was built for the long haul, mostly- it was warm enough to soar well, and he only really had to land to navigate the tunnels. Otherwise, it was a straight shot. He couldn't imagine living without wings. Actually- let's not jinx that.

He'd arrived at the Palace in short order, poking his head about in various rooms and searching for Aethril. Would she be home? The Palace was a lot bigger than he thought it was, and he wasn't about to call out and disturb Isra or the other inhabitants. So, he stepped as lightly as he could on the smooth floors, nosing open doors and peeking in (and pointedly avoiding some corrupted, black room). Where could she be?

Another door. Another room. This one was filled with books, and Vander eyed them warily, head lowered. It felt... fragile, in here. Like an unwelcome cat, he slunk through, stopping to glance at the cover of a book left at the foot of a table. He squinted- he was still getting used to reading, so he got the runes, but other than that? It was lost to him.

He shook his head. He wasn't here for literature. Holding up his head and propping his front legs on the table, Vander looked about the room for a particular Hand. "Aethril?"

@Aethril

No visitors were permitted in the library today, save for one.

Aethril seemed to be under the mercy of a permanent migraine that had started right after she left Vargas in Draco. It wailed deep inside her skull and kept her awake-- awake and fretting. Though the chrysalises down in the basement were safe, she could almost still taste the oil in her mouth that lingered there. The acrid scent lingered around her, reminding her of the Creator's presence, reminding her of how potentially fucked her and everyone else in this nest were.

The library and her ancient books-- her one solace --was not entirely enough to take her mind off it. Even when she lounged in her favourite chair with her book open at her favourite watercolour drawings-- the image of two women in ornate dresses cradling each other under the stars --was not enough to stop her mind from drifting to the worst case scenarios.

It was only interrupted by the arrival of someone new, and her name being called.

The Valkhand did not rise from her chair. She did not even adjust herself to a proper sitting position. With her legs still over one arm of the couch, she stretched to peer over the back of it until she located the Champion lingering near a table. Slumping back over, one manicured hand beckoned him to come closer-- preferably, in front of her.

She watched, and the corners of her painted lips quirked briefly upwards. "Aren't you a fine-looking creation," Aethril purred-- eyes lingering on the generous fluff around his neck. Perhaps it made sense that the Overseer's parent would be equally cute, but she found it idly (and amusingly) suspicious that Vargas's best were beginning to show similar aesthetic traits.

"The Desert Rose, I assume," she gave him another once-over, this one a slight more critical. Small and bulky. The wings might be better for gliding rather than flight. "I recall you were in the audience for the one meeting I attended. Master Vargas has spoken very highly of you."

Onto business. The book was shut with a little click and Aethril finally lifted herself to a (mostly) upright position, heels clicking once on the floor and elbows on her lap. The silks draped around her hung like long swathes of dark water, glittering faintly in the voidlight. "How much had he told you about the talk we had some days ago?" She asked. "I've noticed he can be quite... chatty."

In the loosest sense of the word, of course.

@Vander