09-22-2019, 09:45 PM
When he lunges forward, it is powerful, thrust forward by strong haunches and landing on legs designed for heavy impact. The claws curl instinctively, though they grab only the earth underfoot, and he exhales in a sharp hiss of breath, warning the fox to keep back. Yet, even as he does so, he finds that something else entirely is before him The fox's features distort and change and suddenly what stands only a few feet away is a black stallion, coat scarred but glossy and the bronzed highlights of his mane glowing warmly in the spring sun. The colt squeals and leaps back, clumsy and careless, and with a cry of alarm he tries to turn hastily, a tangle of claws and hooves and fear, but slips on a slick incline and falls instead, sliding closer to the drinking stallion.
He panics.
Dreamscar might be forgiven for failing to read basic equine body language when his only example is his mother. Hippogryph is not the best representative, hiding in the bushes and murmuring to herself, stopping and starting at nothing, and the trance-like silence that falls on her when conditions are just right. She barely blinks, barely breathes, during these moments, she is somewhere else. It does not occur to Dreamscar that there is anything wrong with her fits and moods, it is the way things have always been, and although he does not suffer from the same derangements, it is understandable that he might assume they are normal things. He does know they are nothing to do with his magic. His magic only makes her love him with a mad devotion that can be seen flickering in her eyes when they rest on the half-bird colt. Now, however, when he cries piteously for his dam's protection, she does not see him, cannot hear him, because she has fallen into such a silence. She is a dark statue in the shadows, head craned awkwardly to one side and only her tail blowing in the gentle breeze.
He sees her, sees her stillness, and feels his heart squeeze in its vice of fear. In anguish, he tries to awaken her, tries to throw so much magic at her that she has to feel it, has to wake up, but it makes no difference. Whether he is too far away, whether he misses his aim, or whether he simply does not have that power, he cannot revive her. Dreamscar looks at the stallion again, white showing around amber irises. The horse has not moved and he chances another attempt at standing with a flurry of uncoordinated movements. He stumbles, talons scratching desperate furrows into the mud of the bank, grasping at anything solid, but when he finally finds purchase, it's his own back leg he has grabbed and he falls again, bleeding now. The tumble deposits him with a thud against Jesper's back legs and he lies still, but for the hysterical heaving of his mud-coated sides as he pants, beak and eyes wide.
@[Jesper]
He panics.
Dreamscar might be forgiven for failing to read basic equine body language when his only example is his mother. Hippogryph is not the best representative, hiding in the bushes and murmuring to herself, stopping and starting at nothing, and the trance-like silence that falls on her when conditions are just right. She barely blinks, barely breathes, during these moments, she is somewhere else. It does not occur to Dreamscar that there is anything wrong with her fits and moods, it is the way things have always been, and although he does not suffer from the same derangements, it is understandable that he might assume they are normal things. He does know they are nothing to do with his magic. His magic only makes her love him with a mad devotion that can be seen flickering in her eyes when they rest on the half-bird colt. Now, however, when he cries piteously for his dam's protection, she does not see him, cannot hear him, because she has fallen into such a silence. She is a dark statue in the shadows, head craned awkwardly to one side and only her tail blowing in the gentle breeze.
He sees her, sees her stillness, and feels his heart squeeze in its vice of fear. In anguish, he tries to awaken her, tries to throw so much magic at her that she has to feel it, has to wake up, but it makes no difference. Whether he is too far away, whether he misses his aim, or whether he simply does not have that power, he cannot revive her. Dreamscar looks at the stallion again, white showing around amber irises. The horse has not moved and he chances another attempt at standing with a flurry of uncoordinated movements. He stumbles, talons scratching desperate furrows into the mud of the bank, grasping at anything solid, but when he finally finds purchase, it's his own back leg he has grabbed and he falls again, bleeding now. The tumble deposits him with a thud against Jesper's back legs and he lies still, but for the hysterical heaving of his mud-coated sides as he pants, beak and eyes wide.
@[Jesper]