Finding a coping mechanism has been difficult in Darrow. When the entire world is reachable through the flap of one's wings, there is never a shortage of problems to tend to, always someone to help in the alleys, always threats to keep an eye on to pass the time. Ishiah is, after all, the type of individual who requires that amount of practicality, preferring to engage in actions that yield measurable outcomes.

But in Darrow, he doesn't know enough. Isn't quite invested enough on a holistic level, not when he isn't sure about the cycle of souls in this realm, or about how much energy he'll need to break out.

Selfish. He's been selfish.

It's easier instead to find solace in the familiar, Ishiah's breath slowing as he cranes his neck for better access to the space between the straight line of Robin's jaw and his collarbone, the expanse of neck deceptively soft in skin, though a puck's physical vulnerabilites never quite align with a human's.

"No fights. I went flying," Ishiah says, pressing his lips together thinly. "Searching for the sky's limits. They're closer than I'd hoped."