10-26-2015, 11:17 AM
Zojja has seen enough of winter by this point to be firmly convinced that it is easily her least favorite season. The ice. The snow. The wind. The cold. No - Zojja is most definitely not fond of winter.
When Brynmor wakes, she's huddled not far from him, back to the wind and ears nearly buried in the black tangle of her mane. Her wings are absent today. She's not sure which discovery disappointed her more: that her wings were easily the most susceptible to frostbite, or that conjuring flaming anything on her general person did not, in fact, help to warm her. So seeing this stranger sleeping casually in the snow, flat out on his side and apparently dead to the world, had only served to add insult to injury, and she'd initially crept nearer if only because she wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't dead. Now, though, she stands near him only because she simply can't be arsed to move again just yet. She is simply too frozen, she thinks. Perhaps she'll just freeze here for the duration of the season.
This train of thought lasts only until Brynmor abruptly heaves himself to his feet like a man possessed. Zojja snorts loudly and skitters away from the stallion, collecting herself after a few yards and spinning to give him a deeply offended look for having startled her (because it is his fault, obviously, and not hers for having stood so close). Brynmor does not even acknowledge her retreat - he stares off into the distance as if in a trance, and after a beat Zojja slowly begins to pick her way back toward him, eyes narrowed. Despite the cold, her wings begin to slide free of her shaggy dun hide - she's unsure if making herself appear bigger will be warranted or not, but at the very least, he doesn't look as if he'll be able to follow if she needs to beat a quick retreat. They gleam dully in the weak winter sun when at last they fully manifest, and Zojja shudders with the cold as the wind buffets against them. This better be worthwhile, she thinks.
She's nearly drawn level with him again when Brynmor looses an explosive snort, but this time Zojja merely flinches - he's still not really looking at her, and this near, the state of his eyes hint very strongly as to why. She has to strain to catch what he says, his words nearly snatched away by the wind. I killed them. Zojja weighs the merits of leaving before he notices her - but then, he doesn't look like much of a killer, and Zojja would like to think she's more than a match for him. So she steps nearer. Her mother would almost definitely call her rude for this, but she brushes her muzzle insistently against his shoulder, hoping to catch his attention. "Killed who?" she asks - a bit loudly, over the wind. Perhaps he's referring to his senses. He was certainly sitting in the snow long enough.
When Brynmor wakes, she's huddled not far from him, back to the wind and ears nearly buried in the black tangle of her mane. Her wings are absent today. She's not sure which discovery disappointed her more: that her wings were easily the most susceptible to frostbite, or that conjuring flaming anything on her general person did not, in fact, help to warm her. So seeing this stranger sleeping casually in the snow, flat out on his side and apparently dead to the world, had only served to add insult to injury, and she'd initially crept nearer if only because she wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't dead. Now, though, she stands near him only because she simply can't be arsed to move again just yet. She is simply too frozen, she thinks. Perhaps she'll just freeze here for the duration of the season.
This train of thought lasts only until Brynmor abruptly heaves himself to his feet like a man possessed. Zojja snorts loudly and skitters away from the stallion, collecting herself after a few yards and spinning to give him a deeply offended look for having startled her (because it is his fault, obviously, and not hers for having stood so close). Brynmor does not even acknowledge her retreat - he stares off into the distance as if in a trance, and after a beat Zojja slowly begins to pick her way back toward him, eyes narrowed. Despite the cold, her wings begin to slide free of her shaggy dun hide - she's unsure if making herself appear bigger will be warranted or not, but at the very least, he doesn't look as if he'll be able to follow if she needs to beat a quick retreat. They gleam dully in the weak winter sun when at last they fully manifest, and Zojja shudders with the cold as the wind buffets against them. This better be worthwhile, she thinks.
She's nearly drawn level with him again when Brynmor looses an explosive snort, but this time Zojja merely flinches - he's still not really looking at her, and this near, the state of his eyes hint very strongly as to why. She has to strain to catch what he says, his words nearly snatched away by the wind. I killed them. Zojja weighs the merits of leaving before he notices her - but then, he doesn't look like much of a killer, and Zojja would like to think she's more than a match for him. So she steps nearer. Her mother would almost definitely call her rude for this, but she brushes her muzzle insistently against his shoulder, hoping to catch his attention. "Killed who?" she asks - a bit loudly, over the wind. Perhaps he's referring to his senses. He was certainly sitting in the snow long enough.