going home

It is time, she said, as they sat on the roof overlooking Dragonmaw Port. You know it is, Red.

He shifted uncomfortably and bobbed his head, golden eyes closing to slits in the dim blue light before dawn. He did know, had known for a while, and he told her so quietly as he shook out his wings.

She frowned, leaning against his shoulder, and looked away. There was the ship, red sail black against the last remaining stars, ready to sail at first light.

It's only for a little while, he told her, nudging her with the side of his head, careful not to set her off-balance. And you can come back, if you want.

She laughed, groaning a little, and reached up to scratch behind his jaw. He dipped his head to let her reach.

A little while for your people is a lifetime for mine.

((I'm apologizing in advance for the dry, uninspired wall of text! Caveat lector.))

Three days ago I learned that, in spite of the old saying, you can go home again.

Moving quietly and having a gimp leg tend to be mutually exclusive activities. Stands to reason.

Doing it in the dark, with only the smallest of glows from the decorative crystals in the room to guide you whilst you hobble about? Or the wane light of the pre-dawn peeking through the curtains? Peak of idiocy. Invitation to disaster.

That is, unless you've had years upon years to practice.