Xel puts a paw down to pat his ankle reassuringly, and streeeeeetches in the sunshine. He's not in any great hurry to get back into that enormous, comparatively placid skull. To cast a sleeping spell or to change back while Cesare's focused on the pheasant... decisions, decisions. He yawns, cracking his jaw like a serpent. It's as crisp here, so near to Scotland, as anywhere else, and maybe more. But it's been wet stormy so long, back in town, that the very sunshine lulls.
But look at the main comm page! (sits on the bouncing muse)