11-28-2018, 12:56 AM
Agapi
All at once the twirling ceases, and when it does and a silent stillness creeps through the wooded meadow’s edge she is almost sad to see it go, regardless of it rousing her from her troubled sleep.
Because as she watches the snow settle, sadly, into the ground she is thinking about how not so long ago her and Agave had been almost the same as he had just been now, writhing and squirming in electrified spirals. In their little bodies they had held the same obvious obliviousness to the world and it’s dangers while dancing pirouettes through the meadow and conjuring stories of kings and queens and monsters in their minds. However foolish now, it’s a quality that she admires because she doesn’t know if it’s a time that they will ever get to revisit — dancing, and dragons, and fairy tales.
It all seemed so far away now, that carefree happiness.
There is hardly time to dwell on it though, because in the next moment he is speaking, and quickly, a flurry of words, chipper and exuberant, that seemingly have no end. No longer so bold in the boughs of her tree, Agapi flutters backwards on her branch and ends with her winds poised and quivering at her sides, ready for flight as he assaults her with his friendliness. Before long he is even up in her branch, and Agapi can almost not hear him for the slam of her heart up against her ribs again and again and again as the first firm grasp of fear takes hold of her.
He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, because he persists while gesturing here and there in the hopes of her participation that she refuses with still-ruffled feathers and tiny eyes far too wide now to ever truly belong to a bird.
The answer he shares with her, when he does get to it, comes in the form of a cacophony of discordant and jarring thoughts that Agapi isn’t certain what to do with, however, somewhere in the time that he starts and ends talking she’s decided pointedly that in spite of his relatively spooky appearance he’s not a threat (perhaps even when his eyes are crossed and his tongue is out, a bemused expression of childish wonder wrung through every contour of his face).
“Birds have tongues, right, or how did you talk to me?”
That’s what she hears when she is tuning in again. Agapi pauses a moment, ruffling her feathers and pushing her tiny tongue around inside her closed beak, then says after she has confirmed it herself:
“Well, of course birds have tongues. In any case, I’m not a bird I’m a horse, too. I would show you, but I don’t want to come down.” Although, she would debate it heavily again to avoid another onslaught of words.
“If you’re not dead, and not alive, what are you?”
As soon as the words are off her tongue she remembers why she’s here in the boughs to begin with, and she takes another few quick hops backwards as though a matter of inches is what will save her from the contagion he could be expelling into the air around them.
“Are you sick?”
Because as she watches the snow settle, sadly, into the ground she is thinking about how not so long ago her and Agave had been almost the same as he had just been now, writhing and squirming in electrified spirals. In their little bodies they had held the same obvious obliviousness to the world and it’s dangers while dancing pirouettes through the meadow and conjuring stories of kings and queens and monsters in their minds. However foolish now, it’s a quality that she admires because she doesn’t know if it’s a time that they will ever get to revisit — dancing, and dragons, and fairy tales.
It all seemed so far away now, that carefree happiness.
There is hardly time to dwell on it though, because in the next moment he is speaking, and quickly, a flurry of words, chipper and exuberant, that seemingly have no end. No longer so bold in the boughs of her tree, Agapi flutters backwards on her branch and ends with her winds poised and quivering at her sides, ready for flight as he assaults her with his friendliness. Before long he is even up in her branch, and Agapi can almost not hear him for the slam of her heart up against her ribs again and again and again as the first firm grasp of fear takes hold of her.
He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, because he persists while gesturing here and there in the hopes of her participation that she refuses with still-ruffled feathers and tiny eyes far too wide now to ever truly belong to a bird.
The answer he shares with her, when he does get to it, comes in the form of a cacophony of discordant and jarring thoughts that Agapi isn’t certain what to do with, however, somewhere in the time that he starts and ends talking she’s decided pointedly that in spite of his relatively spooky appearance he’s not a threat (perhaps even when his eyes are crossed and his tongue is out, a bemused expression of childish wonder wrung through every contour of his face).
“Birds have tongues, right, or how did you talk to me?”
That’s what she hears when she is tuning in again. Agapi pauses a moment, ruffling her feathers and pushing her tiny tongue around inside her closed beak, then says after she has confirmed it herself:
“Well, of course birds have tongues. In any case, I’m not a bird I’m a horse, too. I would show you, but I don’t want to come down.” Although, she would debate it heavily again to avoid another onslaught of words.
“If you’re not dead, and not alive, what are you?”
As soon as the words are off her tongue she remembers why she’s here in the boughs to begin with, and she takes another few quick hops backwards as though a matter of inches is what will save her from the contagion he could be expelling into the air around them.
“Are you sick?”
Seize The Moment
@[Arcane]