Primal and ancient, a memory born in her blood and inner-soul: she recognizes the softness of the woman’s nose and the warmth of her breath: the smell, too, is something she finds locked away; but it is not specifically hers- rather it is the instinctual confirmation of some imprinting: mother, that’s who it belongs to.
She considers, in her own small mind, the dead creature on the beach and the way she lacked the imprint: the drive or connection, instead she finds it all strange that her baby-fur is stiff with dried blood and viscera- with touches of frost from the winter. She ponders this: why, what does it mean; but Myrkari is not great newborn philosopher and instead she focuses on the present.
Jude’s eyes and her smell, the softness of her nose- and the desire to pick and play: to chase and be chased… even if she cannot understand why the others lack talons and toes.
“Name.” she chirps, mimicking the word with a soft lilt to her speech. The hardness of the keratin hoof is strange but, she steps back then and lifts her foreleg: bends it and allows the talons to scratch her own belly and chest before placing them back down.
Quiet after the fact, she steps forward and walks: but rather than around, she moves through- walks through Jude as if she is ghost, as if the filly simply lacked tangibility. Yet as she steps out and away, saunters and studies the hooves more: stares off at swaying night-blossoms… she becomes solid again, brushing flower and grass- leaving tracks and even brushing the earth: scratching it to leave marks as she bounces and wanders back.
“Mine. Yes. Myrkari. No… claw.” genuine words, her questions posed as she points at Jude’s hooves and looks to her own talons, frowning. “Strange, weird- me weird.”
And those words, she ends on- stares and watches.
you have to become equal in every way
@[peregrine jude]