07-17-2019, 09:32 AM
Pteron has not been bound to the earth in years. An airborne trek across Pangea is no longer than one taken through the winding peaks of Hyaline, and he is genuinely puzzled by the long stare and the bitter laugh. He has begun to frown and nearly asks, but then she points down to her broken wing and realization rushes through him. It is not a comfortable feeling and Pteron glances away, additionally berated by the smallest edge of frustration in her voice. The answer to his question seems obvious, and when he raises his head again to is to gesture to the far northeast.
The path they’ll take is that way, he says without words. Having only flown over that part of Beqanna, Pteron is not at all familiar with the footpaths. He supposes they’ll just get going in a general northern direction, and if they feel they’re wandering off route he can always take to the sky and check their location. He continues to plan the journey in his head. After they leave the Riverlands, they’ll move along the border between the Meadow and the Field. It is an ambiguous sort of line, but one that Pteron has not seen a horse mistake. The Feild has one purpose only, so he plans to keep a little farther north than necessary, lest they find a sylvan searching for a meal or an eager herd stallion that might find the soft yellow mare appealing.
Reminded of her suddenly, the blue-marked stallion realizes he’s been quiet for just long enough to feel a prickle of social discomfort. He blinks, reminds himself of happiness and meet’s Vastra’s gaze squarely.
“You need to keep that elevated,” he says of the mare’s broken wing. Pteron does not know why elevation is important, but it is something he recalls his mother having said once. She’d had a wing broken herself, Pteron remembers.
“Can you hold it up?” The young stallion asks, “If you can’t, you can rest it on me. I think I’m enough taller that it’ll be above your heart.” He’ll have to walk quite carefully if she takes him up on the offer, the tri-colored stallion realizes. Keeping the break elevated above her heart is yet another bit of healing advice that he remembers without understanding, as is the suggestion that they go to find some water before they being their trek across the wastelands.
“There’s a creek over there. Let’s get a drink and then head west. There’s enough of a moon to guide us.” Better not to rest, he thinks. He’d rather traverse the baking plains in the moonlight than beneath the scorching sun, and they should be well clear of Pangea by the time the sun is at its peak.
@[Vastra]
The path they’ll take is that way, he says without words. Having only flown over that part of Beqanna, Pteron is not at all familiar with the footpaths. He supposes they’ll just get going in a general northern direction, and if they feel they’re wandering off route he can always take to the sky and check their location. He continues to plan the journey in his head. After they leave the Riverlands, they’ll move along the border between the Meadow and the Field. It is an ambiguous sort of line, but one that Pteron has not seen a horse mistake. The Feild has one purpose only, so he plans to keep a little farther north than necessary, lest they find a sylvan searching for a meal or an eager herd stallion that might find the soft yellow mare appealing.
Reminded of her suddenly, the blue-marked stallion realizes he’s been quiet for just long enough to feel a prickle of social discomfort. He blinks, reminds himself of happiness and meet’s Vastra’s gaze squarely.
“You need to keep that elevated,” he says of the mare’s broken wing. Pteron does not know why elevation is important, but it is something he recalls his mother having said once. She’d had a wing broken herself, Pteron remembers.
“Can you hold it up?” The young stallion asks, “If you can’t, you can rest it on me. I think I’m enough taller that it’ll be above your heart.” He’ll have to walk quite carefully if she takes him up on the offer, the tri-colored stallion realizes. Keeping the break elevated above her heart is yet another bit of healing advice that he remembers without understanding, as is the suggestion that they go to find some water before they being their trek across the wastelands.
“There’s a creek over there. Let’s get a drink and then head west. There’s enough of a moon to guide us.” Better not to rest, he thinks. He’d rather traverse the baking plains in the moonlight than beneath the scorching sun, and they should be well clear of Pangea by the time the sun is at its peak.
@[Vastra]