( after she's gone, julian has to remember what on earth he was doing in the first place. oh, water, right. fresh water. of course the makeshift "cup" he'd brought along to carry it in got smashed in the scuffle and he'd utterly forgotten about it, so now he's got no way to bring it back to his "lair." it's more tedious to walk all the way there and back when "walking" is quite difficult for him in the traditional sense these days, so he just goes to wash up and have a drink cupped in his hands and worry about bringing more back later. then it's back to the little den he's made of foliage and branches, probably some abandoned animal nest at some point. it's not exactly the coziest little thicket, but he wasn't exactly looking for comfort and peak living. just somewhere to hide, relatively secluded so that he'd be harder to spot. or... easier to mistake for a wild animal and left alone.
he hears the approach well before it's near, though. his hearing is a lot better than it ever was, and in the depressing, maddening silence of not knowing whether anything he just experienced was real outside of the cloth he's still desperately clinging to, he's especially sensitive to it. of course all that ruckus blending together from a distance doesn't sound like anything he can make sense of—just birds shrieking and calling out, and... morga. shouting indistinctly. he's already taking on the laborious task of getting back up and starting out to investigate, but at the sound of his name—
he takes off like a bat out of hell. the crashing and stumbling through the brush is deafening, clumsy and frantic. one foot in front of the other is tough to manage, and he moves faster when he's hopping along like a bird would than actually trying to run. such is his urgency to reach them, assuming the worst as always, that he forgets he doesn't know how to fly. his wings stretch and beat hard once, twice, propelling him right up off the ground and hurtling him forward, stirring up all manner of debris in his wake. then he really is taking off like a bat (or bird) out of hell. fine, so it's not flying, per se. but he's definitely hovering, at the very least, and looks quite a fright doing it, teeth bared in a grimace, arms raised. his wingspan is at least double his width and nearly as tall, and each flap sends a flurry of un-attended to feathers everywhere along with the twigs and leaves and dirt. )
Morga?!
( there's. there's no danger here. just malak being annoying, an activity he abandons when julian reaches the clearing several inches above the ground, circling him with interest, and a very scolded jaeger. the moment he realizes nothing is tearing her or anyone else apart, his wings give out and he drops like a useless sack of rocks into the grass. )
Mmrpgh— you're here, you came back! Why were you yelling like that?! I -I thought you were... what happened?
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he hears the approach well before it's near, though. his hearing is a lot better than it ever was, and in the depressing, maddening silence of not knowing whether anything he just experienced was real outside of the cloth he's still desperately clinging to, he's especially sensitive to it. of course all that ruckus blending together from a distance doesn't sound like anything he can make sense of—just birds shrieking and calling out, and... morga. shouting indistinctly. he's already taking on the laborious task of getting back up and starting out to investigate, but at the sound of his name—
he takes off like a bat out of hell. the crashing and stumbling through the brush is deafening, clumsy and frantic. one foot in front of the other is tough to manage, and he moves faster when he's hopping along like a bird would than actually trying to run. such is his urgency to reach them, assuming the worst as always, that he forgets he doesn't know how to fly. his wings stretch and beat hard once, twice, propelling him right up off the ground and hurtling him forward, stirring up all manner of debris in his wake. then he really is taking off like a bat (or bird) out of hell. fine, so it's not flying, per se. but he's definitely hovering, at the very least, and looks quite a fright doing it, teeth bared in a grimace, arms raised. his wingspan is at least double his width and nearly as tall, and each flap sends a flurry of un-attended to feathers everywhere along with the twigs and leaves and dirt. )
Morga?!
( there's. there's no danger here. just malak being annoying, an activity he abandons when julian reaches the clearing several inches above the ground, circling him with interest, and a very scolded jaeger. the moment he realizes nothing is tearing her or anyone else apart, his wings give out and he drops like a useless sack of rocks into the grass. )
Mmrpgh— you're here, you came back! Why were you yelling like that?! I -I thought you were... what happened?