10-11-2019, 12:51 AM
The owl catches his eye. It's a weird time of day for an owl to be out flying, and that is, perhaps, what is upsetting the crows. They are not friends, owls and crows, with the heavier raptor being a predator and regular raider of nests. The flock lifts and re-settles, a few wheeling away as though to give chase with harsh cries, and Dreamscar loses sight of them between the trees, so he does not know if they find the silent white flier.
And, in truth, he only cares so much. The birds are nothing to him, individually, they are only of interest to him in that they are a common fixture, and occasionally serve as a sort of early warning system. Crows are territorial and curious, and little escapes their notice. Dreamscar is not curious. He grows increasingly reclusive and anxious, a hard knot sitting uneasily in his belly. He turns to his dam who has gone back to chewing the trumpet-shaped flowers on their climbing vines and shakes his head irritably.
No.
He snaps his beak at her hindquarters, catching the soft meat of one leg with the sharp point of his bill. It is sharper than would be natural for a bird - but of course, he is not a bird - and a thin streak of blood blooms across the delicate skin inside her thigh. The black mare squeals but lurches out of the patch of morning glories into more suitable fare. She gives no further sign that she even notices the wet stain that slowly seeps down her leg. The colt does not join her in the hollow he has pushed her off into, but stands near the top of the small hill and looks to the crows as a clamor rises from them again. He wonders if the owl is back, but instead it is a young horse - older than him, but no adult, long in places that should be short, and too short in places that should be long. A yearling. She speaks and he responds with a hiss.
Amber eyes stare flatly in a way distinctly designed to send her on her way. It is a habit of the Others to always appear where they are not wanted. Which, really, is anywhere he and Hippogryph happen to be. Sometimes they try to speak to his dam, the adults, mostly, and he does not appreciate their advances, guards the crow-black mare with fierce jealousy against their intrusion. But the younger ones, they are usually more interested in him, though he cannot fathom why, does not recognize their desire to play.
He shakes his head again with the same move-along threat that his mother ignored, although the pale yearling filly is too far away to bother with the following lunge and bite. The dull black feathers on his chest lay flat and tight to his body in response to the encroaching threat of the yearling and his unnatural crouch deepens, if only slightly, ready to lunge or flee as necessary.
"What."
Is it a demand? A question? His voice is a scratchy croak and has little inflection to make the meaning clear.
@[Altissima]
And, in truth, he only cares so much. The birds are nothing to him, individually, they are only of interest to him in that they are a common fixture, and occasionally serve as a sort of early warning system. Crows are territorial and curious, and little escapes their notice. Dreamscar is not curious. He grows increasingly reclusive and anxious, a hard knot sitting uneasily in his belly. He turns to his dam who has gone back to chewing the trumpet-shaped flowers on their climbing vines and shakes his head irritably.
No.
He snaps his beak at her hindquarters, catching the soft meat of one leg with the sharp point of his bill. It is sharper than would be natural for a bird - but of course, he is not a bird - and a thin streak of blood blooms across the delicate skin inside her thigh. The black mare squeals but lurches out of the patch of morning glories into more suitable fare. She gives no further sign that she even notices the wet stain that slowly seeps down her leg. The colt does not join her in the hollow he has pushed her off into, but stands near the top of the small hill and looks to the crows as a clamor rises from them again. He wonders if the owl is back, but instead it is a young horse - older than him, but no adult, long in places that should be short, and too short in places that should be long. A yearling. She speaks and he responds with a hiss.
Amber eyes stare flatly in a way distinctly designed to send her on her way. It is a habit of the Others to always appear where they are not wanted. Which, really, is anywhere he and Hippogryph happen to be. Sometimes they try to speak to his dam, the adults, mostly, and he does not appreciate their advances, guards the crow-black mare with fierce jealousy against their intrusion. But the younger ones, they are usually more interested in him, though he cannot fathom why, does not recognize their desire to play.
He shakes his head again with the same move-along threat that his mother ignored, although the pale yearling filly is too far away to bother with the following lunge and bite. The dull black feathers on his chest lay flat and tight to his body in response to the encroaching threat of the yearling and his unnatural crouch deepens, if only slightly, ready to lunge or flee as necessary.
"What."
Is it a demand? A question? His voice is a scratchy croak and has little inflection to make the meaning clear.
@[Altissima]