10-17-2019, 10:01 PM
It’s not the River that pops and splinters behind her, but Eyas knew that. Her chin and lower cheeks felt cold, lying there in the wet mud of the watery banks, and she didn’t move to look at Set while he changed from one animal to the next. Not even when he sighed before speaking - a tone that sounded weathered, nearly comforting. Fatherly. Set had a voice that could put her at ease.
When the crunching sound of gravel and sand to her right meant he was walking, then she looked: Eyas could see the same riverbank mud caked over the black hair that covered his hooves. He stank of the wild and what lived in it, and when his teeth grasped her forelock (the only long part of her otherwise fjord-like mane) Eyas’ head rose with them, sucking free from wet clay and leaving clumps dangling from the furry hair covering her face and neck.
Her nose flared and the young mare breathed evenly, trying not to let the discomfort of a stranger’s touch unnerve her too much. For long months she’d been isolated by choice, but if Set could touch her this way it meant her reality was certain and this was not a vision. She turned to listen while he spoke, curving her neck and peering queerly at the shape of his odd facial marking, the lower half of her own face obscured by the bent crook of her wing as she withdrew it from his lips and the water.
“Not what I think; what I know.” She corrected him softly at first, barely above a whisper. Her eyes, the same night-black ones that turned away from him earlier, stared at the baroque stallion with a curious determination now. “Death rejected us both and look what happened. You’re much too old and I’ve seen far too much for us to be sitting here, playing twenty questions, Set.” Eyas breathed his name, blinking against the warm gust of air.
“I’m tired.” The mare sighed, letting the brief display of hard-headedness flicker out of her. She drooped again, visibly exhausted and looking every bit a world-weary ancient rather than the flowering three-year-old she was. “I can’t trust that you’ll help me if I ask - I can’t trust you.”
@[Set]
When the crunching sound of gravel and sand to her right meant he was walking, then she looked: Eyas could see the same riverbank mud caked over the black hair that covered his hooves. He stank of the wild and what lived in it, and when his teeth grasped her forelock (the only long part of her otherwise fjord-like mane) Eyas’ head rose with them, sucking free from wet clay and leaving clumps dangling from the furry hair covering her face and neck.
Her nose flared and the young mare breathed evenly, trying not to let the discomfort of a stranger’s touch unnerve her too much. For long months she’d been isolated by choice, but if Set could touch her this way it meant her reality was certain and this was not a vision. She turned to listen while he spoke, curving her neck and peering queerly at the shape of his odd facial marking, the lower half of her own face obscured by the bent crook of her wing as she withdrew it from his lips and the water.
“Not what I think; what I know.” She corrected him softly at first, barely above a whisper. Her eyes, the same night-black ones that turned away from him earlier, stared at the baroque stallion with a curious determination now. “Death rejected us both and look what happened. You’re much too old and I’ve seen far too much for us to be sitting here, playing twenty questions, Set.” Eyas breathed his name, blinking against the warm gust of air.
“I’m tired.” The mare sighed, letting the brief display of hard-headedness flicker out of her. She drooped again, visibly exhausted and looking every bit a world-weary ancient rather than the flowering three-year-old she was. “I can’t trust that you’ll help me if I ask - I can’t trust you.”
@[Set]
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