INFECTED WITH YOUR GENETICS ☆ o, joining

[icarus.]

Mist whispers and sighs across the fawn-colored heath, shrouding ivory pawsteps as they drift across well-worn paths. Icarus is not entirely acquainted with all of the craggy nooks cradled between the rolling hills, but with each passing day the moor grows more and more familiar. A gust buffets his pelt and the tom stands unmoving against it as his lips part to taste the passing breeze. He thinks idly how the rapid approach of summer will be met with welcome arms here, where the air whips through the uplands with an unrelenting fierceness. It tastes crisp, like sharp winds and cool rains, and yet there is an earthy quality of dirt and grasses and cobweb-littered buildings full of books left untouched for many moons. It's strange, this place — unlike any of the many others he has known — but he suspects he could grow used to it.

The gales of these lands have another strange quality to them, carrying words across the hills towards unsuspecting ears. It's how he hears Aurum's call, scattered across the fields in echoing murmurs, and it's how he ends up padding towards the lion now. Emerald-green eyes flit across the other's form, a spark of curiosity igniting as he lingers upon the wings with faint reverence. Icarus hardly notices the spots of blood, misplaced feathers, and general weariness at first — he's too caught up in his own wistful imaginings of what it might be like to graze the heavens. "You look like you've had better days, stranger." The tabby greets him without warning, gaze only dragging itself to focus on the outsider's face after the words have already passed his lips. There is an enigmatic pensiveness to his features, distant in thought yet speaking with relaxed affability. An ear twitches and suddenly he eases into a warm smile, an olive branch in hopes that his comment will not be misinterpreted as ill-intended.

The wind picks up once more and he holds firm, the soft chill a sharp contrast against the intense brightness of his verdant gaze. The stranger's scent is foreign and strong with recency, he notes, but Icarus has such limited knowledge of the surrounding groups that he doesn't even attempt to decipher what it might mean about his origins. Based on his words Icarus can only assume that he's... lost, maybe? The golden feline adds with mildness, "I'd invite you into the manor to rest, but I have to ask your intentions first." Head motions to the imposing structure of brick and mortar before tilting inquisitively. He doesn't say it outright — name and business — but there's a cleverly-hidden prompt for an introduction disguised between his earlier words, silently urging his address to be corrected with a name despite the casual nature of his tone. Silence falls in anticipation of a reply, and still the Knight's attention remains fixed on Aurum with knife-sharp interest.