Roda Palfour watches the rise and fall of his land as it breathes.
He takes into himself the sound of the chalcedony surf as it rubs hard against the greyish, gold-flecked soil-sand of Ansypporus’ only island shore, where situates his little monastery among tall rock strut trees of jutting chocolate granite. A hand brushes his shoulder, as if the wind has thoughts, too; he moves to go inside, shuffling in nicely starchy robes and naked bird feet toward the wide window of doors which lead into the home of his sanctuary. His, he tells himself… The Student would have something to say about it.
He ambles down the central corridor, looking into the others’ rooms without turning; his eyes are on either side of his head, after all. His movements draw a few flutters from behind this intricate wooden screen, a nod from a shadow hidden behind a gold-papered dressing divider. He moves on.