(no subject)

[chime_ra_tilt]

The change of seasons always fills Zelgadis with a simmering restlessness. The faint suggestion of a coolness to the summer-parched air, the slight but noticeable shortening of days, the cries of migrating birds high overhead in the lengthening night, all only serve to make his fingers itch for maps of places unknown, and to tempt his gaze to the far horizon.

Today finds him perched in one of the high-backed chairs in a well-lit corner of the Milliways' library, perusing the few ancient tomes and fraying atlases he had been able determine are from his own world.