The month since he'd last visited had flown by fast — so fast that he'd hardly even realized that it had been so long. Autopilot had been too busy to care recently, between all the injuries, joiners, battles, religious discoveries, and general chaos that seemed to accompany life in the Flights. Either way, he knows he has to keep up with his ambassadorial duties between it all, so the wiry feline readied himself for the short journey. ...That all said, he'd just given the Solaris healers some jungle herbs at the recent medic alliance gathering, which left Autopilot at a loss as to what he ought to include as a gift. Scrounging up more books from the ruins seemed like a cop-out, and the discovery of the shrine was still too new for him to steal any pillows to give away without anyone taking notice. He'd even considered just throwing in some of his own personal favorite items, but he wasn't sure that the Solarians would appreciate having random pebbles, coins, buttons, and prey-bones in the same way he treasured them. So the tom was stumped — that was, of course, until he'd remembered his new job as a Guardian Dove. In the end, Autopilot made a special trip to the aviary to pick up some eggs of varying sizes, shapes, and colors. He'd thanked the mother birds for their kind donations, set up some soft bedding, added a few arrows as for good measure, and then set off, sure to hold the basket with extra care than usual.
He always forgets how hot the desert is. It's harsh and all-consuming, threatening to pull the moisture from his tongue with each breath, for the taste in the air is coarse and rough and dry and so utterly unlike the jungle. Autopilot doesn't realize how accustomed to the Flights he is until he arrives here and feels so sickeningly out of his element, so exposed and vulnerable in the vast stretch of wasteland sands. At least it renders the border near-impossible to miss; rolling fields of bountiful fauna fade into sun-baked soil and he sets his basket down gingerly, bracing himself against the late-spring gusts of air as his gaze scans the horizon. Autopilot shifts, uncomfortable, and then comes to seat himself with hesitance. He's more familiar with the desert-dwellers than he was the last time he set paw in this land, and still he hopes that the Kingdom will arrive swiftly, if only so that his eggs won't boil in their shells beneath the unforgiving sun.