[center][h2][color=goldenrod]Terilu[/color][/h2]
[i]Addressing: [@Enigmatik][/i]
[/center]

Terilu feels a rush during flight. Not at first; only after he's been up in the air, letting his wings strain against the world trying to pull him back down, panting to keep himself cool up over the earth, for some time. The rush is almost identical to the way a long-distance sprinter feels halfway through their run. It's that rewarding high of intense exertion. And the 'high' is very literal, when you're soaring over rooftops.

Terilu is in flight over the parked Caravan now, feeling like a circling vulture, and he wants to never come down. His body is straight like an arrow and the shadow cast by his wingspan consumes caravans; his fellow pilgrims are ants at this height. He feels like he could step on them. But the poor thing about running or about flying is that, when the rush hits you, you're immediately on a timer. At that point you'll never really want to stop, but you only have so long before the buzz fades away and your exhaustion catches up with you far quicker than you could soar away from it. Terilu doesn't wish to burn up before he even enters the clanhold proper. Besides, he hears something down below that interests him: [color=lightgreen]"Heading into the city,"[/color] says the voice of Gadri, which- like many low, dwarven kinds of voices- seems to carry well even when all they're doing is mumbling. [color=lightgreen]"Anyone feels like seeing what a clanhold is really like... Be happy to show you."[/color]

Yes, Terilu feels like seeing it. With some regret at losing flight time, he rocks his body back, lets his feet swing down into a standing-like position, and feels himself slowing and floating downwards.

He's still panting like a dog as his feet hit the sand, right beside Gadri, as if they'd been walking together the whole time. Terilu's aim is always good. A little sandstorm is kicked up by his arrival, spreading golden dust into the air; and that's something you could never get tired of. He takes an almost childlike pleasure in watching the sand twirl. If it wasn't for the heat, and the long days, and the Dinnin themselves, Terilu could get used to this world. The air is so pure. And his fur, plus his usual robe-like attire, is weirdly fit for keeping the worst of the sun off his back. He's not as natural here as he is back home, but from the sad look of all the Pilgrims now sweating in the sunlight, Terilu think he can handle desert better than the skinned races. 

Minus, he supposes, the ones who have lived in these kinds of places all their lives. "[color=goldenrod]So,[/color]" says Terilu to Gadri. "[color=goldenrod]Your home was something like this? It's... impressive. Most places I've seen since I left my home nest are so backwards, like barbarians. I think you Dinnin might be smarter.[/color]"