It's turned properly into autumn here, a sort of dying of the year perhaps but a lovely one; Lyall feels at home among the cooler weather, the oranges and yellows of the leaves.
Perhaps the slight strangeness to the air -- foreboding as signs about the Purge have gone up -- but also strange fits of magical failing that nag him out in search of their cause -- perhaps that's just a bit of home as well, if not quite as beautifully one.
Whatever it is, it's turned into a walk, and he scents Luke's presence before he notices the post box he's walking toward. It's not that he hasn't seen the thing before, but he's never really noticed it, the bright sigils, the flowers and candles at its base. A sort of shrine, almost.
He raises a hand in greeting, turning it over in his mind, the people he'd like to write to and can't. "Does it go anywhere?" he asks, feeling very foolish no matter what the answer may be. "The post."
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Perhaps the slight strangeness to the air -- foreboding as signs about the Purge have gone up -- but also strange fits of magical failing that nag him out in search of their cause -- perhaps that's just a bit of home as well, if not quite as beautifully one.
Whatever it is, it's turned into a walk, and he scents Luke's presence before he notices the post box he's walking toward. It's not that he hasn't seen the thing before, but he's never really noticed it, the bright sigils, the flowers and candles at its base. A sort of shrine, almost.
He raises a hand in greeting, turning it over in his mind, the people he'd like to write to and can't. "Does it go anywhere?" he asks, feeling very foolish no matter what the answer may be. "The post."