It is late, the sun is almost setting. The thin air is still all too warm, even as it circulates about the room. I let out a huff, and rise, and stretch my wings. It's a good time for an evening fly over the Setsawls.

The spring blossoms grow wild outside of the cavern's entrance, the leafy trees flourishing from the recent snowmelt. The air out here has already begun to cool, as the sun approaches close enough to the horizon to start painting the sky. I part my wings, feeling the chill breeze swirl and eddie against their underside, wisps tangling through my mane like a hundred gentle claws.

The leaves and needles around me rustle as I take off, and then quickly fall out of hearing as I climb. The air and sky and wind surround me, I follow their paths over my mountains. Pressure ripples over my scales, under my wings, across my mane and around my tail to show me where the wind blows, an ever-shifting series of paths and trails, like tracking invisible, ever-present prey.

My eyes turn westward, toward the sunset, the namesake of my Setsawls. It is nearly over, having scattered amber and pink and scarlet all across the skies of Tlen, now receeding into violet and that perfect, abyssal black. There, below, is Greymaw, a fiery gash in the land leaking light and warmth and resource from beneath.

I bank to catch a different windstream, and turn my eyes eastward, where the stars are clearest. They pour in as the light of the sun continues to retreat, subtly multicolored and shimmering. They're mirrored in the ocean— and there, southwestish, the lights of Parvanni on the coast look just like more starlit reflection.

The high mountain wind is properly chilling now, bracing my scales, causing my wings to glow with warming bloodflow. It washes through my lungs, and fills my mind with calm. I return to the mountain, and she welcomes me. Forest litter crunches beneath my claws, now lit in gentle purple, and the wild shaking of the trees rapidly dies down to gentle swaying in the night breeze.

I close my eyes, turn my head upwards, and be. The insects and critters of the mountain react little to my presence, and gladly fill the air with theirs. I turn to smell the forest — evergreens, flowers and grasses, active prey and old wood and dry soil, and the distinct scent of the encroaching night on crystal mountain air. I turn to smell the cavern — friends, companions, lovers, food and warmth, a scent rich with simple ritual, of time spent on love. I belong here.