The winged man sat at the edge of the cliff as he always did, gazing out into the valleys far ahead.
These valleys always held an enchanting beauty to him, one that kept him returning to this exact spot over and over again till it had become where he would spend most of his days and nights, and never did he grow tired or sick of the sight.
However this time was not the same as other times. This time, not even the rolling valleys that lay ahead and the meadows of poisonous blooms could bring any sort of excitement or appease the winged man.
That beauty he had often seen was equally nowhere to be found, there was no beauty in anything when wrath churned within his heart, curling dangerously, seeking an outlet to be unleashed.
Rather than a melancholic or calm expression as would usually be found on the winged man, there were instead traces of agitation on his expression, especially in his eyes.