Azriaphale

Had skink
Had runes



He sighed softly, his claws tapped on the balcony. The moon shined resplendent on the sky, it was if its light was conversing with his own glimmery markings, stars that rested on his skin. Azriaphale was feeling pensive that night, and it couldn't be any different. A few hours earlier he had performed one last time before his departure - the harp was more than his instrument, it was more like an old friend, a steady companion that he had never let go of in the many changes his life had met until that point. And it'd follow him for the many others that still awaited him. Whenever he played, everyone in the palaced agreed on the same thing: that their prince played it as if he had come not from the crystalline shell of an egg, but from somewhere far higher in the sky than any dragon's wings could reach. And little to their knowledge, he did.
His secret was partially the reason he had to leave the safety of his and his family's palace. Not that he'd be in express danger in the open world, no, for Azriaphale held more power in himself than he could ever tell someone. He met the divine, once. He was given a task. He was a guardian, a protector, and the time had come for him to find in that land that had become his home, the subject in need of his care. And so, after a while of convincing the illustrious family who so kindly had made of him one of theirs, and of preparations, in the next morning the celestial icy prince would finally move on with his destiny